


Songfics

by beargirl1393



Series: Songfics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Cheating, Depression, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Off-Screen Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics inspired by various songs. </p><p>1.White Horse-Sherlock/John, implied John/OFC<br/>2.I'm Dreaming-Implied past Sherlock/John, implied past John/OFC<br/>3.If I Had Only Known-John/Sherlock. Set post-Reichenbach. Major Character Death<br/>4.Ours-Sherlock/John. Some spoilers for the show<br/>5.Safe & Sound-Sherlock/John. Some spoilers for the show and mentions of past violence<br/>6.Tattoos & Scars-Some spoilers for the show and mentions of past violence.<br/>7.Homeboy-Gen, Mycroft & Sherlock<br/>8.Last Call- Harry Watson/Clara. Mentions of alcoholism<br/>9.Remind Me-Mycroft/Greg<br/>10.Should've Said No-Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Greg, implied John/Greg<br/>11.Who's Cheatin' Who-Mycroft/Greg, implied Greg/John, past Mycroft/Sherlock asexual relationship, asexual Sherlock<br/>12.Dancing Away With My Heart-Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield<br/>13.This Ain't Nothin'-Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins<br/>14.Come Home-Mycroft & Sherlock, gen<br/>15.Powerless-Bilbo/Thorin, implied character death</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock should have known that it was too good to be true. Why had he deluded himself into thinking otherwise? Sherlock/John, implied John/OFC. Song is "White Horse" by Taylor Swift

Sherlock sat in his chair in 221b, trying to stop thinking. His head was pounding and he felt horrible, yet the slideshow of images he wanted nothing more than to delete was playing out in front of his eyes whenever he closed them, making sleep impossible. He turned on the telly, needing something to distract him. There was a concert on whatever channel it had been left on. A young woman, blonde, reasonably pretty, was singing. American, going by her accent. The song she was singing came to an end, and a new one began. This one, Sherlock shuddered as she sang. This song reminded him what he wished to forget.

_Say you’re sorry,_

_That face of an angel comes out_

_Just when you need it to._

**He** had always been able to fool Sherlock with that face. Everyone else, he noticed right away. But with **Him** …

_As I pace back and forth_

_All this time_

_‘Cause I honestly believed in you._

Sherlock had been fooled as well, and he spent no small amount of time pacing because of it, trying to decide what it was about **Him** that had caused Sherlock to take leave of his senses. He had believed that everything was alright, that they were alright, but now…

_Holding on, the days drag on_

_Stupid girl, I should’ve known, I should’ve known_

Sherlock had been stupid, exceptionally so, believing **His** lies. He really should have known.

_I’m not a princes; this ain’t a fairytale._

_I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet,_

_Lead her up the stairwell._

_This ain’t Hollywood, this is a small town,_

_I was a dreamer before you went and let me down._

_Now it’s too late for you and your white horse_

_To come around._

He had believed that everything was perfect, indeed, like a fairytale. **He** had swept Sherlock off his feet entirely, which was why he had fallen so far when he found out. He had dreamed of what it could be like, what it would be like, and he had suffered for that. **He** had attempted to contact Sherlock several times, but it wouldn’t work. It’s far too late for that; those dreams are dead and buried.

_Baby, I was naïve,_

_Got lost in your eyes,_

_I never really had a chance._

 

It had been disturbingly easy to lose himself in those blue eyes, so warm and comforting. No matter how bad things got, even in his blackest mood, those eyes and that smile could make him feel better. He had been terribly naïve.

_My mistake, I didn’t know_

_To be in love you had to fight_

_To have the upper hand._

Their first fight had shocked him; he hadn’t realized how badly **His** disapproval could cut him. He hated the fighting, the arguing, but it had seemed to be par for the course. He hadn’t realized that he had to try to have the upper hand. He thought they were supposed to work together. **He** had shown Sherlock just how wrong he was.

_I had so many dreams, about you and me,_

_Happy endings, now I know,_

_I’m not a princess; this ain’t a fairytale,_

_I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet,_

_Lead her up a the stairwell._

_This ain’t Hollywood, this is a small town,_

_I was a dreamer before you went and let me down._

_Now it’s too late for you and your white horse,_

_To come around._

Sherlock had whole wings in his mind palace devoted to **Him**. Filled to the brim with anything to do with **Him** , from how he liked his tea to how long it took him to get ready in the mornings. He had rooms in those wings filled with dreams of their future. Those dreams had turned to ash and dust, the only remnants of the future he had dared to hope for.

_And there you are on your knees._

_Begging for forgiveness, begging for me,_

_Just like I always wanted,_

_But I’m so sorry_

There were dozens of missed calls and unread texts from **Him** on Sherlock’s phone. He couldn’t answer them, couldn’t read them, but he couldn’t delete them either. He couldn’t delete **Him** at all, but that didn’t mean he would have anything to do with **Him**.

_‘Cause I’m not your princess; this ain’t a fairytale,_

_I’m gonna find someone, someday, who might actually treat me well._

_This is a big world, that was a small town,_

_There in my review mirror disappearing now._

_And it’s too late for you and your white horse,_

_Now it’s too late for you and your white horse,_

_To catch me now._

He had considered leaving London, temporarily or permanently, he wasn’t sure, but it seemed like a good plan. The Work could wait; he needed to get away. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of **Him**. If he left, he would no longer be haunted by the ghosts and shadows of what could have been. At least, that’s what he told himself as he began to pack. Most of it would go in storage; he would only take the essentials with him. Time to start fresh, without **His** memory dogging his heels.

_Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa-oh,_

_Try and catch me now, whoa-oh._

_It’s too late,_

_To catch me now._

There was a knock at the door as he was gathering the last of his belongings, the ones he was taking with him; the rest had been sent to a storage locker. Mrs. Hudson was put out that she would have to find a new lodger, but he couldn’t stay, not anymore. **He** hadn’t noticed, had been out visiting **His** sister, telling her the good news no doubt.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Sherlock froze with his bag over his shoulder. He was hoping to leave before **His** return; he didn’t know if he was strong enough to face **Him** right now.

“Sherlock, I’m…back,” **He** said, trailing off as **He** looked around, noticing the lack of stuff in the normally crowded sitting room. There were no more experiments, no more skull, and only **His** books adorned the shelves. “Sherlock?”

He cleared his throat as he met those blue eyes, confusion swirling in their depths. “I can’t do this anymore John, I’m sorry,” he forced out, moving to pick up his coat.

“What?” John asked, looking at his flatmate and former lover with surprise and shock written clearly on his face.

“I heard about you and Mary,” Sherlock said, forcing himself to keep his voice level. “Apparently I was the last to know, as I heard about it from Mycroft.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “It was a onetime thing. It didn’t mean anything…”

“To you maybe,” he replied, tying his scarf.

“I’m sorry,” John said, blue eyes wide and radiating a sincerity that Sherlock couldn’t trust. “What can I do…?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said curtly, picking his bag up once more and turning towards the door. “It’s too late for you to do anything. Good-bye John.”


	2. I'm Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just wants to wake up from the nightmare that is life without Sherlock. Implied past Sherlock/John, implied past John/OFC. Can be considered a sequel to "White Horse" or can stand alone. Song is "Come Wake Me Up" by Rascal Flatts

 

_I can usually drink you right off of my mind,_

_But I miss you tonight._

John usually avoided alcohol. With his history, he really didn’t want to push his luck. Since Sherlock left, however, there was nothing else to distract his mind from thinking about how lonely he was or how boring his life was without his mad genius lover/flatmate.

_I can normally push you right out of my heart,_

_But I’m too tired to fight._

He was tired of fighting, so tired. His heart had shattered when he opened the door and saw Sherlock preparing to leave. He tried to pick up the pieces and soldier on, but he was just too tired anymore.

_Yeah the whole thing begins,_

_And I let you sink into my veins,_

_And I feel the pain like it’s new._

He sometimes thought that it would have been better if they had never gotten together in the first place. But then, a memory will resurface; Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock, blushing shyly as he kissed John for the first time. The memory hurts, as do all the others, when he remembers. He should have never cheated, never went behind Sherlock’s back. If he had just talked to him…

_Everything that we were, everything that you said,_

_Everything that I did and I couldn’t do,_

_Plays through, tonight._

He sees, every time he closes his eyes, Sherlock’s face as he reveals that he knew about the affair. John tried to pass it off, pretend like it had been a onetime thing, but he could see that Sherlock knew it had been more than that. Sherlock had been so hurt, looked so lost. He should’ve never slept with Mary, sexuality crisis or no. He loved Sherlock, but he couldn’t get his head around loving a man when he had exclusively dated women. If he had talked to Sherlock about that instead of trying to hide it…

_Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;_

_With every one it grows higher and higher._

_And I can’t get over it; I just can’t put out this love._

_I just sit in these flames and pray that you’ll come back;_

_Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that_

_I’m dreaming, come wake me up._

John had hoped that this was a nightmare many times. He hoped that he was just dreaming and he would wake up with Sherlock beside him, sleeping or doing something on his laptop. No matter what though, he never woke up, never saw his best friend and lover lying beside him, peaceful and relaxed, smiling that smile that never failed to warm his heart.

_Turn the tv up loud just to drown out your voice,_

_But I can’t forget it._

The first thing he did when he returned to the flat after work was to turn on the telly. He had moved out of Baker Street, unable to deal with the empty rooms. He began working longer shifts at the hospital, but it still left him with too much free time. Every time he entered his flat, he closed his eyes, hoping that Sherlock’s voice would ring out against the stillness as he lay on the sofa, complaining that he was bored. That never happened, and he would hurry to turn on the telly, trying to forget the baritone voice he sometimes thought he couldn’t live without.

_Now I’m all out of ideas and baby,_

_I’m down to my last cigarette._

John had no idea what he could do to stop thinking of Sherlock. It had been months since Sherlock had left, but John couldn’t stop thinking about him. Everything reminded him of the other man, even the scent of the cigarettes he had tried to quit smoking.

_Yeah you’re probably asleep,_

_Deep inside of your dreams,_

_While I’m sitting here crying and trying to see._

_Yeah wherever you are, baby,_

_Now I’m sure you moved on and aren’t thinking twice_

_About me and you, tonight._

Sherlock never slept as much as a normal person. He wouldn’t have slept at all unless John dragged him to bed. Is he sleeping now? Is he curled up in his bed somewhere, sleeping peacefully and not sparing even a second’s thought to John, who couldn’t sleep without dreaming him? Did he ever think back to their time together, or had he deleted it already? John couldn’t delete things like Sherlock could, and even if he could, he didn’t think he would.

_Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;_

_With every one it grows higher and higher._

_And I can’t get over it; I just can’t put out this love._

_I just sit in these flames and pray that you’ll come back;_

_Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that I’m dreaming_

_I know that you’re moving on, I know I should give you up;_

_But I keep hoping that you’ll trip and fall back in love._

_Time’s not healing anything,_

_Baby this pain, is worse than it ever was._

John had imagined, so many times, what would happen if he ever saw Sherlock again. He would take walks throughout the city for that purpose, yet he never found the other man. He knew that Sherlock had more than likely moved on already and that he should do the same, but he couldn’t. He wanted Sherlock to come back, to forgive him and give him another chance. Time apart hasn’t helped. It was their anniversary, what would have been their anniversary if he hadn’t ruined it, and it hurts more now than it did before.

_I know that you can’t hear me but baby,_

_I need you to save me tonight._

The gun, sitting in his desk drawer, hadn’t been used since Sherlock’s last case. The metal was cool in his hand as he picked it up, hefting the familiar weight. He picked up a bullet and put it in the chamber, watching the way the dim light made the barrel gleam. If ever there was a time he needed Sherlock, it was then. He couldn’t stand to live without him anymore.

_Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;_

_With every one it grows higher and higher._

_And I can’t get over it; I just can’t put out this love._

_I just sit in these flames and pray that you’ll come back;_

_Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that_

_I’m dreaming, come wake me up._

The muzzle was cool as he pressed it against his skull. The safety was off, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He closed his eyes, imaging Sherlock once more, and he could swear he heard the door opening. Someone was calling his name; _Sherlock_ was calling his name. John smiled as his finger tightened on the trigger. He’s dreaming, once again, but this time he won’t have to wake up.

_Oh I’m dreaming,_

_Come wake me up,_

_Oh, I’m dreaming._

Sherlock yanks the gun out of his hand before he could pull the trigger. John opens his eyes, blinking as the person in front of him doesn’t go away. Sherlock, standing in front of him and holding the gun, was frowning.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock asked, furious.

“I…” John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“I leave you, to get over you, and what do you do? You make that impossible.”

John notes the bags under Sherlock’s eyes, and notes that the younger man has lost some weight without John there to force food on him.

“I knew I never could forget you, but I thought that I could at least appear to have moved on. And then you decide to kill yourself! What were you thinking?”

“I missed you,” John said, looking up into the pale blue eyes he had missed so much these past few months. “I couldn’t live without you Sherlock. I was an idiot and I chased you away, and I couldn’t stand knowing that I lost you because I was stupid.”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes assessing and deducing everything. God, John had missed that look.

“It appears that we need to talk,” Sherlock said at last, looking from the gun to his former lover.

John nodded, hoping that he didn’t wake up from this dream.


	3. If I Had Only Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things would have been different if he had known. John/Sherlock. Set post-Reichenbach. Major Character Death. Song is "If I Had Only Known" by Reba McEntire

_If I had only known_

_It was the last walk in the rain,_

_I’d keep you out for hours in the storm._

_I would hold your hand_

_Like a lifeline to my heart;_

_Underneath the thunder we’d be warm._

_If I had only known_

_It was our last walk in the rain._

He had never thought about it, not really. He’d never really planned on what they would do once they were too old to track criminals throughout London, although he should have. It couldn’t have lasted forever. He hadn’t thought the last case would be the _last_ one. He hadn’t believed that Sherlock was as badly hurt as they said he was. Getting him back from the dead was a blessing, one he hadn’t questioned these past five years. He had raged and fumed, but then he had given in and kissed the smug bastard like he had dreamed of doing. Five years. They had been together for five years, married for three. How had it come to this? One man got a lucky shot, and now he was done? Paralyzed, they said, from the waist down. God, how would Sherlock handle the inactivity? That would be the least of their problems.

_If I had only known_

_I’d never hear your voice again,_

_I’d memorize each thing you ever said._

_And on those lonely nights_

_I could think of them once more,_

_And keep your words alive inside my head._

_If I had only known_

_I’d never hear your voice again._

Sherlock had talked to the doctors, sneaky git, when John left the room to get tea. He had asked them to hide what they had found, not revealing that he would get worse over time, not better. Eventually, he wouldn’t be able to speak, wouldn’t be able to leave his bed. He would be trapped in his own body, and that would eventually kill him, stopping his heart from beating and his lungs from breathing. Even still, once he had found out, John thought he would have more _time_. He hadn’t realized that that beautiful voice would be silenced so soon.

_You were the treasure in my hands;_

_You were the one who always stood beside me._

_So unaware,_

_I foolishly believed that you would always be there._

_But then there came a day,_

_And I turned my head,_

_And you slipped away._

John had thought he had realized what he had; thought that he appreciated how rare his case was. Who had their love return from the dead? Sherlock hadn’t really died, but that didn’t make it any less special when he reappeared. Sherlock had treated every day with John as if it would be his last, after his return. He had changed, not much but he had changed, and he always made sure John knew he was loved. Why hadn’t he done that for Sherlock? He had treated him like he would always be there, like he would always be able to talk to him and argue with him and love him. But Sherlock wasn’t there anymore. He had gone, quietly, and had left John behind. He had gone to the one place where John couldn’t follow.

_If I had only known_

_It was my last night by your side,_

_I’d pray a miracle to stop the dawn._

_And when you smiled at me,_

_I would look into your eyes,_

_And make sure you know that my love for you_

_Goes on and on._

_If I had only known._

_If I had only known._

_Oh the love I would have shown,_

_If I had only known_

If he had known Sherlock’s last night was going to be his last, he certainly wouldn’t have slept. He would have stayed awake, praying to anything and everything to let Sherlock live, to let him keep the best thing that had ever happened to him. Sherlock woke him up, about midnight, and John had grumbled, too sleepy to notice the letter Sherlock slipped into his hand. He must have used the last of his strength, and John hadn’t even noticed. It was simple, and beautiful, and John kicked himself for not waking up to properly look at what his husband had wanted. Sherlock had spent his last moments alone, with John beside him true, but alone none the less. If he had known…Well, a lot of things would be different if he had known.


	4. Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are the only one I could ever love," he murmured into the warm skin, pressing a light kiss against a pulse point.  
> "I love you too Sherlock," John said, bringing up a hand to run it through Sherlock's curls. Through everything that had happened, that fact would remain.  
> Sherlock/John. Some spoilers for the show. Song is "Ours" by Taylor Swift

_Elevator buttons and morning air._

_Strangers’ silence makes me want to take the stairs._

_If you were here we’d laugh about their vacant stares,_

_But right now my time is theirs._

John goes to work at the surgery, just like he does any other day when Sherlock doesn’t have a case. Little things that he never noticed before scream at him now, wanting to be acknowledged now that he can actually be bothered to care. Now that Sherlock’s back, the numbing fog has lifted. The people in the elevator he either doesn’t know or doesn’t talk to look at him oddly. Granted, he usually takes the stairs, but today he took the elevator. Looking at them staring into space, he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. If Sherlock was here, he would probably have reduced at least one of them to tears and had the rest ready to murder him before the doors closed. Sighing, he patiently waits for the elevator to reach his floor. Work now, Sherlock later.

_Seems like there’s always someone who disapproves._

_They’ll judge it like they know about me and you._

_And the verdict comes from those with nothing else to do._

_The jury’s out. My choice is you._

Sherlock had looked so worried, when it was announced that they were together. It was at a crime scene, of course, the first one they had gone too since Sherlock’s return, not counting the arrest of Moran. After that case, they had an instructive talk, which led to both of them confessing to mutual attraction. Now, on this crime scene, he looks at everyone. Lestrade looks happy, no real surprise there. He’s been saying John is the best thing to happen to Sherlock since their second case together. Donovan, no surprise, is leading the opposition, aided by Anderson.

“Did the Freak brainwash you?” she asked, “Or threaten you? You can tell us if he threatened you, you don’t have to play along.”

“He didn’t threaten me or brainwash me,” John bit out around clenched teeth. He didn’t want to get arrested for hitting a police officer again.

“Well, he had to have done something,” Anderson said snidely. “I mean, look at him. Who would want anything to do with that?”

Sherlock’s spine stiffens. He had been bending over the corpse, observing things that are only noticeable to him. Now, however, he had frozen, not moving or speaking. His head is downcast, still apparently focused on the dead body in front of him, but John knew that he was going over their arguments in his head, still trying to figure out why John would want him.

“What you think doesn’t matter,” John barks, striding over to Sherlock and putting a hand on his shoulder. “All that matters is that I love him and he loves me. Who I date is my choice and my choice alone, and it’s not any of your business.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile before beginning to rattle off his list of deductions about the crime.

_So don’t you worry your pretty little mind,_

_People throw rocks at things that shine,_

_And life makes love look hard._

_The stakes are high, the water’s rough,_

_But this love is ours._

“Why do you love me?” Sherlock asked later that night, when they’re finally able to relax together. The case was simple, solved in a matter of minutes, and now he’s focused on a new puzzle. “Anderson and Donovan are right. I am not conventionally attractive, and I have any number of irritating qualities. True, I am a genius and you are impressed by my deductions, but my other less favorable traits outweigh that. I’m not normal John.” The last part was said quietly, so quietly that John had to strain to catch it. Silently, he cursed Sherlock’s parents, brother, peers, and anyone else who convinced him that his only worth was his mind and his ability to solve crimes.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and running his thumbs over the prominent cheek bones. “I don’t care if you’re ‘conventionally attractive’; I think you’re bloody gorgeous. And I know you can be an irritating sod; I was your flatmate before we got together, remember? And yes, you are brilliant, as I have told you frequently, but that’s not the only reason I love you. I love you for you Sherlock, and if no one else likes it they can sod off.”

Sherlock smiled, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on John’s lips.

_You never know what people have up their sleeves._

_Ghosts from your past gonna jump out at me._

_Lurking in the shadows with their lip gloss smiles;_

_But I don’t care, ‘cause right now you’re mine._

They’re at Angelo’s, celebrating the end of another case when it happens. The man is tall, slim but muscular. His light brown hair was styled to look casually messy, and his brown eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

“My God, it can’t be Sherlock Holmes,” the man said, clapping one tanned hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock stiffened, but his face was neutral as he spoke. “Hello James.”

“I haven’t seen you since Uni,” James said, grinning. “Want to go out for a drink to get reacquainted?”

John scowled. Evidently, this man knew Sherlock rather well and was prepared to pretend that John didn’t exist.

Sherlock shrugged the hand off his shoulder. “No thank you,” he said, not bothering to conceal his scorn as he said, “In Uni, the only time I saw you was when you were crawling into my bed because you had another row with your girlfriend. Mutual fun was all well and good, but I have no desire to resume that relationship now.”

John bit his lip, torn between laughing and gaping. He had known that Sherlock hadn’t been a virgin when they got together, no matter what Irene Adler thought, but he hadn’t heard him put it quite so bluntly before.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, ignoring James’ crestfallen look, “I am in a relationship with John.”

As James walked off, still looking upset that his planned fun hadn’t happened, John couldn’t help but smile at his lover. They had their problems, and the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past would probably strike sometime, but none of that mattered. He had Sherlock; that was all that mattered.

_And you’ll say_

_Don’t you worry your pretty little mind,_

_People throw rocks at things that shine,_

_And life makes love look hard._

_The stakes are high, the water’s rough,_

_But this love is ours._

Sherlock nuzzled closer to John on the couch. He knew John was still thinking about James, but he also knew that John was smart enough to know that he had no competition. Still, such things bear repeating.

“You are the only one I could ever love,” he murmured into the warm skin, pressing a light kiss against the pulse point.

“I love you too Sherlock,” John said, bringing a hand up to run it through Sherlock’s curls. Through everything that happened, that fact would remain.

_And it’s not theirs to speculate_

_If it’s wrong and_

_Your hands are tough_

_But they are where mine belong and_

_I’ll fight their doubt and give you faith_

_With this song for you._

Sherlock had very little self-confidence. Very few people knew this, as he was good at faking his emotions, but John knew how self-conscious Sherlock could be, especially about John. Every time someone criticized their relationship or told John that he could do better, Sherlock would freeze. He wouldn’t offer scathing commentary or anything in his own defense. Instead, he would look at John with an expression that was confused and vulnerable, as though he was waiting for John to wake up and decide that Sherlock wasn’t good enough for him. Every time that happened, John would tell off whoever saw fit to criticize them at that point and, once they got home, reassure Sherlock that he wasn’t ever going to leave.

_‘Cause I love the gap between your teeth._

_And I love the riddles that you speak._

_And any snide remarks from my father about your tattoos will be ignored,_

_‘Cause my heart is yours._

Mycroft was surprisingly pleasant when informed of the change in their relationship. He had, more than likely, already known, but entering the flat while Sherlock was snogging John senseless in his chair made it plain. Harry, on the other hand, didn’t bother to say anything constructive, sober or drunk, when John told her he was dating Sherlock. There were several snide remarks about “no wonder all the girlfriends didn’t work out” and “what happened to being just friends with the nutter”, at which point John hung up. It didn’t matter what she thought. The past was the past. Sherlock, mad genius, and John, ex-soldier and doctor, were together, and no one could break them up.

_So don’t you worry your pretty little mind,_

_People throw rocks at things that shine,_

_And life makes love look hard._

_Don’t you worry your pretty little mind,_

_People throw rocks at things that shine,_

_But they can’t take what’s ours._

_They can’t take what’s ours._

John smiled at Sherlock as he held out the ring box, showing off the two plain yet pretty rings. “They can’t break us up now,” he murmured, slipping the ring on Sherlock’s finger.

“Never,” Sherlock agreed with a small smile, sliding the other ring on John’s finger. Donovan and Anderson would still do their damnedest to get John to run screaming away from Sherlock, and John would probably still have problems with Harry. A lot of people would object to this, but that didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was John and the fact that he loved him more than he had ever loved anyone else.

_The stakes are high, the water’s rough,_

_But this love is ours._

As Sherlock met John’s eyes as he said his vows, he saw his own emotions reflected back at him. “The stakes are high,” he murmured, recalling his paranoia earlier in their relationship, fearing that John would leave him.

“And the reward is more than worth it,” John said with a smile. Now, no matter what happened, he and Sherlock would always have each other. It might not be easy, but they were perfectly happy regardless.


	5. Safe & Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock's return, John sees how much his friend had suffered. It will take a long time for Sherlock to feel safe again, and John will do whatever is necessary to help him.  
> Sherlock/John. Some spoilers for the show and mentions of previous violence. Song is "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift and The Civil Wars.

_I remember tears streaming down your face_

_When I said I’ll never let you go;_

_When all those shadows almost killed your light._

_I remember you said “Don’t leave me here alone”._

_But all that’s dead and gone and past tonight._

When Sherlock first came back after faking his death, John wanted to hate him. He had gone around thinking that his best friend and lover was dead for three years, while the idiot was out trying to single handedly take down Moriarty’s network. The look on Sherlock’s face, the despair clouding his pale eyes, the suit draped haphazardly over the skeletal body; all of those things make it very hard for him to hate Sherlock. What completely throws him is how unlike Sherlock he’s acting.

Sherlock has his moments where he doesn’t want to talk, true, but John was expecting, half-hoping, to hear what Sherlock had gotten up to in the three years he’d been gone. He listens attentively to what John has to say about his life, but will make no mention of what happened to him during the three years they were apart. John leaves the flat about two hours after Sherlock entered, unable to take the tense atmosphere.

When he returned, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, as though afraid to go to their bedroom or lay on the sofa where they had cuddled numerous times. He’s twitching, John notices, and trembling. He’s muttering something, but until he moves closer John can’t understand. When he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

His name, coupled with other words. “Not John, please God not John,” and “Don’t leave John please, I’m sorry, so, so sorry.” Other times its threats, against people John has never heard of but are evidently part of Moriarty’s network. Or were, if the threats were any indication.

_Just close your eyes;_

_The sun is going down._

_You’ll be alright;_

_No one can hurt you now._

_Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe and sound._

Sherlock shots upright when John touches him, reaching a hand towards his waistband in a movement John is all too familiar with.

“Easy,” John soothes, trying to take the wildness out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Everything’s alright; it’s all fine. You’re in Baker Street, remember? You got all of Moriarty’s men.” He knows that nightmares can linger, leaving you disoriented as to where you are and what is going on, and the best cure is to have someone to ground you in the here and now. He never thought he would be dealing with a Sherlock who needed that comfort.

“John?” Sherlock says, and his voice is a mixture of confusion and terror that nearly kills John.

“I’m here Sherlock,” John murmurs, enfolding his taller lover in his arms. Sherlock complies willingly, seeming to crumble inwards. “Everything will be alright. No one can hurt you anymore.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Sherlock murmurs, his face buried in John’s hair.

_Don’t you dare look out your window;_

_Darlin’ everything’s on fire._

_The war outside our door keeps raging on._

_Curled up to this lullaby,_

_Even when music’s gone,_

_Gone_

“I don’t know what to do John,” Sherlock confessed when they were curled up on the couch some hours later. “I never planned this far ahead. In the beginning, there was no time to plan. I knew Moriarty wanted me to kill myself, and that he would have some way of forcing me to comply, and I had to work around that. I never thought that he would bring you into it, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. Moriarty said that he was going to burn the heart out of me. I am starting to believe that he did.” John starts to speak, but Sherlock holds up his hand. “I’m numb John; completely numb. I spent the entirety of my time away hoping that you were safe and praying that you would forgive me for my deception. I couldn’t let myself feel anything, or I might make a mistake that I couldn’t afford, so I didn’t feel anything. Not pain nor hunger, not joy nor sorrow. I was the machine that everyone believed me to be, and I don’t know how to change back.”

John pulls him even closer, pressing a kiss to the desperately untidy curls that he had missed. He rested his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head, trying to think of a way to help him.

“Don’t think about it,” John finally says, causing Sherlock to turn his head slightly. His face had been buried in John’s chest, now it’s slightly turned towards him; one startlingly blue eye focused on him. “Lock those memories up in a room in your mind palace and don’t let them out.”

“There will always be war John,” Sherlock says, sounding far older than John had ever believed he would, “And there will always be suffering. Why lock away memories of one catastrophe and allow another to replace it? It’s pointless John.”

“When you were gone,” John murmurs, meeting Sherlock’s gaze squarely, “The one thing that kept me going was your violin. The night before everything went to hell, you played for me. It was the most beautiful and also the saddest song I had ever heard, and I could still hear it after you stopped playing. Every time I went to visit your grave, I could hear it in my head. Even though I thought I would never hear you play again, I couldn’t stop hearing the melody. I knew there are bad things Sherlock, but you have to see the good too, even when it seems like it’s gone.”

Sherlock said nothing, simply burrowed his face into John’s chest once more, but John felt him nod, just once.

_Just close your eyes;_

_The sun is going down._

_You’ll be alright;_

_No one can hurt you now._

_Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe and sound._

Sherlock would often wake up screaming, when John was able to convince him to sleep. He dreamed of everything he had had to do, and everything that had been done to him, during his three year absence. John was there for him when he awoke, something which seemed to help Sherlock calm down. He had spent three years in a constant state of anxiety, not knowing if he would succeed in his mission or if he would fail, and it wasn’t easy for him to readjust to his relatively safe life. John helped with that. Each time he woke up in John’s arms, listening to his murmured reassurances, Sherlock was able to relax. He was safe with John.

_Just close your eyes._

_You’ll be alright._

_Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe and sound._

Whenever Sherlock woke up screaming, it would kill John. He remembered his own night terrors, a remnant of the war, and he knew how terrifying his resting mind could be. Hearing Sherlock screaming, begging for mercy for John or vowing revenge on some minion or the other, was twenty times worse than his worse night terror. He would do everything he could to help Sherlock, but sometimes he felt like what he was doing wasn’t enough. Sherlock had been home for several months now, safe and sound, and he still woke up screaming his throat bloody every night. He did his best to offer reassurance while he attempted to wake Sherlock, promising that he was safe, they were both safe, and there was no need for him to worry. He thought Sherlock hadn’t listened, too wrapped up in his own head-space, but tonight he was proven wrong.

“It’s fine, it’s all fine,” John murmured, rubbing Sherlock’s back. “You’re safe now Sherlock.”

“Yes,” the detective murmured, curling impossibly closer, “Safe with John.”

Neither spoke after that, but that was fine. Sherlock was here, he was safe, and he’d do everything he could to keep it that way.


	6. Tattoos & Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three years since the Fall and John's coping, somewhat. He goes out to the pub or a coffee shop most days after work to simply escape the silence of his flat. One night, a strange man sits beside him and they talk.  
> Mild spoilers for the show and mentions of past violence. The song is "Tattoos And Scars" by Montgomery Gentry

_A young kid stepped in from the cold;_

_He ordered up a drink._

_He said, “Don’t look surprised old man; I’m older than you think.”_

John was sitting in the pub, a pint mostly untouched in front of him. It had been something of a tradition in the three years Sherlock had been gone, for him to come to the pub a few times a week, order a pint, and simply sit and stare at the telly or the other people in the pub. He couldn’t handle sitting alone in his flat, and he had no interest in dating at the moment, so he would go out, to the pub or a coffee shop, and sit and watch people.

A young man walked into the pub, reddish-brown hair plastered to his head because of the rain. He was tall and slim, skinny enough to be verging on emaciated, and his hair was shoulder length, hiding his face from view. He approached the bar, taking the stool next to John and ordering a pint with a voice that was hoarse from disuse or illness. He noticed John’s staring and stiffened, obviously uncomfortable with the attention. John could sympathize.

“I’m older than I look,” the man muttered as he took a sip from his pint.

_“If I was the talkin’ kind, I could tell you a thing or two;_

_And since you didn’t ask, let me show you my tattoos.”_

_He said, “I got this rose in Memphis, in some back old alley dump.”_

The stranger rolled up the sleeve of his thin, shabby jumper, revealing a far too bony forearm as well as a tattoo, a candle, yellow with a golden flame.

“I got this in America, when I was there for work,” he muttered.

“A candle?” John asked, slightly curious.

“I found myself missing my conductor of light,” the stranger murmured, lightly stroking the golden flame, “And this was a way to carry him with me always.”

_“Picked this eagle up in Dallas; Man I sure was good and drunk.”_

The stranger rolled his sleeve back down, before sliding the collar of his jumper down slightly so John could see another tattoo, this one just below his collar bone.

“A name?” John asked, trying to make out the letters, but it was no good. The tattoo was right above the stranger’s heart, giving John too poor of an angle to see the whole thing.

“Yes,” the stranger said softly. “I was drunk in Germany. I had gotten drunk trying to forget him, funnily enough, but nothing helped. I missed him, and I needed to let him know, if I ever saw him again, that I was still his, forever. The next day I regretted the drinking, as it hindered my ability to do my job, but I couldn’t regret the tattoo.”

_“And you know the way I see it, if it gets any worse out there,_

_A guy like me, hasn’t got a prayer.”_

“You seem to really like this guy,” John said, taking a sip of his pint. “Why aren’t you with him?”

The stranger flinched, as though John had struck him, but before John could apologize the stranger answered him.

“My work is rather dangerous, and there was a situation which put him in an inordinate amount of danger unless I made a rather hard decision. I allowed him to believe the worst of me, hurt him beyond belief, so that he would be safe.”

“He didn’t take that too kindly?” John asked. He could see Sherlock doing something like that… Best stop that thought before it goes too far. He did his best not to think of Sherlock, or what could have been.

“I haven’t explained it to him yet,” the stranger sighed, finishing his pint and ordering another. “It’s taken quite a while to clear up everything, remove everyone who could be a threat to him, but I’m afraid to go back. How can I face him after what I did? He’ll never forgive me.”

_The old man poured some coffee;_

_He said, “This one’s on me,”_

_Set down his cigarette and rolled up his sleeve._

_Said, “Take a good look here my friend;_

_You see what these are?_

_Just my ragged old and jagged ordinary scars.”_

John stopped the other man when he was going to order another pint, instead ordering two coffees. “These are on me.”

“Why?” the stranger asked, hands curling around the warm mug.

John took a sip of his coffee before saying, “You showed me something, now it’s my turn to return the favor.”

_He said, “I got this one in Paris, in a war ‘fore you were born.”_

John slid the collar of his jumper and shirt down enough to reveal the top of the bullet scar on his shoulder. “I got this in Afghanistan, ‘bout 5 years ago. I was working to save this kid and a sniper shot me.”

“Is that what happened to your leg as well?” the stranger asked curiously. There was something else besides curiosity in his tone, regret maybe, but John didn’t know the other man well enough to judge.

“No, it’s psychosomatic,” John said, looking at his cane with disgust. “It went away for a bit, but after…well, it’s a good thing I kept the cane.”

The stranger simply nodded, sipping his hot coffee in silence.

_“And this one when I was half your age workin’ on my daddy’s farm.”_

“This one,” John said, rolling up his sleeve so his companion could see the scar on his arm, “I got chasing my mad flatmate around London, chasing criminals.”

“Sounds dangerous,” the other man said, something John couldn’t identify in his voice.

“Yes, yes it was,” John sighed, “But even though it was dangerous, and even though I got hurt in the end, I wouldn’t trade my time with Sherlock for anything.”

_“And you know the way I see it,_

_Son, you ain’t seen what I’ve seen;_

_‘Cause tattoos and scars are different things.”_

The strange man was silent, apparently thinking about John’s words.

“Look,” John said, “You loved this bloke, right?” At the stranger’s nod, he continued, “Then listen to me. You may have been to a lot of places, but you don’t know as much as you think you do. If you love him, really love him, tell him that. I would give anything if I could see Sherlock again, just once.”

_He said, “I’ve been here for all these years, and what I know is this:_

_If you look and listen close, a man will show you what he is._

_You know, the way I see it,_

_You’ve been around but you’re still green;_

_‘Cause tattoos and scars are different things.”_

“Anything?” the stranger asked, his voice rather strange.

“Anything,” John repeated firmly. “This is overly sentimental, and God did he hate sentiment, but I can tell you that if the two of you were meant to be together, you will be.”

“Before I left, I told him horrible things, lies to make him believe the worst,” the stranger murmured, “And I don’t know if he believed them. He always believed the best of me, but everyone else tried to convince him otherwise. What if he finally believes them?”

“If he loves you as much as you do him, he should know you,” John said.

_A young kid stepped in from the cold;_

_He ordered up a drink._

_He said, “Don’t look surprised old man, I’m older than you think.”_

The stranger finished his coffee and seemed to be thinking about leaving. Looking at the time, John realized that it was rather late and he had a shift at the surgery tomorrow.

“Listen, it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve got to get going,” John said, standing and donning his coat. “I hope it works out with you and your mate.”

“John,” the stranger said, startling John. “His name is John. He was everything to me, unfailingly faithful even when others were against me.”

John froze. It could be a coincidence, but everything the stranger had said, the name of his lost love, and the voice that, after several drinks, lost its hoarseness and became a familiar baritone rumble…

“Sherlock?” John breathed, reaching forward and brushing the long, auburn hair away from the man’s face. Familiar pale eyes set in alabaster skin looked at him, love and fear and regret and hope swirling in their depths.

“Hello John,” Sherlock replied.


	7. Homeboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Mycroft wants is for his little brother to come home, so everything can go back to how it was before he made his first mistake.   
> Takes place before and during the series. Gen pairing. Some spoilers for the show. Some mentions of drug use, implied neglect of a minor, and depression.

_You were too bad for a little square town,_

_With your hip-hop hat and your pants on the ground._

_Heard you cussed out momma, pushed daddy around,_

_‘Fore you tore off in his car._

Mycroft was sitting in his office, finishing going over a report for the Prime Minister before going home. It was almost Christmas, and Sherlock was home from university. He had called Mycroft the previous day, seeming most upset that his elder brother wouldn’t be able to spare even one day to visit, despite the fact it had been years since he had seen his brother. He did want to go, but such was the life of a government official. His ‘minor position’ was already growing, giving him much more influence than a man of his age would normally have. If he was honest, he had more influence than men three times his age.

The ringing of his phone startled him as he was signing his name on his revision of the report.

“Holmes,” he stated, striving to make his tone the perfect blend of unemotional and bored with a slight hint of impatience, as though his time was more important than anything the person on the other end could possibly say. He had finally perfected it last year.

“Mycroft,” Mummy said, “Sherlock’s gone!”

“What?” Mycroft asked. Not the most intelligent thing he could have said, but he decided he was allowed a slip when informed that his parents had misplaced his brother. _How do you lose an 18 year old?_

“He left,” Mummy elaborated, sounding more than a little inebriated. “Your father and I were in the sitting room and he was off brooding somewhere, and then he came storming down the steps, grabbed his coat, and took off in one of the cars.”

Mycroft sighed. He still had several important papers to go over, not to mention meetings to attend tomorrow. He didn’t need to be tracking Sherlock across England right now. But, if he didn’t find him, who knew what trouble Sherlock would get himself into. And he knew Mummy and Father wouldn’t look for him. Most of the time, they seemed to forget they had children at all.

“I’ll find him Mummy,” he sighed, his plans for the evening going out the window. Just once, couldn’t Sherlock behave himself; just once?

_Here you are runnin’ these dirty old streets_

_Tattoo on your neck, fake gold on your teeth._

_Got the hood here snowed but you can’t fool me,_

_We both know who you are._

After a few calls, he located his little brother. He was apparently in London, having left home two hours before Mummy called, and he had driven to Hyde Park. Mycroft called for a car to take him there, remembering the times when he would visit with Sherlock, or bring him up for the weekend while he was in Uni. Sherlock had hated being left behind when Mycroft had left for Uni, but there was nothing he could do. To soften the blow, he would make sure he had one weekend free each month, bringing his brother up and trying to find things to interest him. He had stuck faithfully to that schedule throughout his first year, but after that he had less time, becoming more involved in politics before he had graduated. Mycroft realized, as they approached the park, that he hadn’t seen his brother in over three years.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called as he approached the bench where he knew his brother would be sitting. He was half-right; Sherlock was curled up on the bench, sleeping under his coat. “Sherlock,” he repeated, slightly louder.

Sherlock lifted his head, blinking his eyes sleepily. The coat fell off of him as he sat up and stretched. “Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, as though he didn’t believe that his brother was really there. Considering how long it had been since they had seen each other, he wasn’t surprised.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, taking a seat beside his brother, “What possessed you to run off like that?”

Sherlock immediately tensed, a shadow passing over his face. When he met his brother’s gaze, Mycroft was startled to find that Sherlock’s expression gave nothing away. His little brother was hiding from him. That hurt more than it should have.

“What concern is it of yours?” Sherlock asked, “Don’t you have more important things to do, running the British government or something?” Sherlock’s tone was harsh, and there was a note of concealed hurt that made Mycroft’s heart stop.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Do you know why I called you yesterday Mycroft? Why I practically begged you to come home for Christmas?” Sherlock asked, temper and pain flaring in his eyes. “I needed to talk to you. You do remember what that entails, don’t you? You would take five minutes from your ‘inordinately busy schedule’ for me, to make me actually feel like someone gave a damn whether I was alive or not.”

“I do care Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, feeling torn. Something was wrong with Sherlock; that much was evident. Whether this was just an adolescent tantrum or something more severe had yet to be determined.

“Of course you do, _brother dear_ ,” Sherlock sneered. “Do all brothers demonstrate their affection by telling their brother to piss off because they have work to do?”

“I didn’t mean…” Mycroft started, before he was once again cut off.

“Do you know why I _bothered_ you? Do you know why I _called to waste your time with trivialities_?” Sherlock asked, eyes shimmering with tears he wouldn’t shed. “I was attacked My! By my roommate and his friends. They were high, and decided that it would be nice to indulge before they went home for the holidays. They decided to ‘show the Freak his place’ before they left.”

Mycroft paled. This was worse than he had imagined. He had thought that Sherlock was being mocked by his peers and decided rebellion was the only way to gain Mycroft’s interest. He should have realized. Sherlock had been mocked for years, and he could only assume that it had continued in the same vein after he had left. Sherlock hadn’t bothered him then, so why would he bother him now with the same problem.

Sherlock stood, swirling his coat around him as his brother remained frozen on the bench. “Good-bye Mycroft.”

Mycroft sat and watched his little brother leave the park as his heart sunk within him. There was a finality when Sherlock said ‘good-bye’ that indicated that their parting would not be temporary.

_Homeboy, you’re gonna wish one day_

_You were sitting on the gate of a truck by the lake;_

_With your high school flame on one side,_

_Ice cold beer on the other._

Mycroft was right, of course. Something had changed that night when Sherlock had called and Mycroft had dismissed him. In one thoughtless move, he lost his little brother’s respect, something that was hard to come by. Sherlock never gave a damn what anyone thought of him, but he had cared what Mycroft thought. Now, however, apparently he had been demoted. Sherlock wouldn’t take his calls and ignored him when he visited. He would simply continue doing whatever he had been doing before Mycroft entered the room, as though his elder brother didn’t exist. That hurt more than Mycroft would admit, even to himself.

Sometimes he would consider what would have happened if he had went home for Christmas, or at least asked Sherlock what was bothering him. He would probably be able to talk to his little brother, for one, and said brother probably wouldn’t be causing half the trouble he currently was.

_Ain’t no shame in a blue collar forty,_

_Little house, little kid, little small town story._

_If you don’t ever do anything else for me just do this for me brother;_

_Come on home, boy._

Mycroft turned up at Holmes Manor on Christmas day one year later, expecting his brother to be somewhere on the premises. What he didn’t expect was being told that neither of his parents or any of the servants had seen Sherlock since he took off last Christmas. The car was found abandoned, but they had no clue where Sherlock was. His parents assumed Sherlock was staying with friends for Christmas. Mycroft doubted that, he knew full well how his brother regarded most people, and Sherlock didn’t have friends. He went looking for Sherlock, and found him in his flat on-campus, higher than a kite.

“ ‘Lo My,” Sherlock said lazily as his elder brother stood frozen by the door.

“Sherlock…what…?” Mycroft found himself speechless for the first time in several years.

“What are you doing here Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, lazily rolling a syringe between his palms. Mycroft followed the motion with his eyes. “Don’t you have some third world country to invade?”

“Sherlock…are you high?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the jab. Sherlock didn’t do drugs. Sherlock was smart; he knew that drugs could kill him or ruin his mind. Sherlock wouldn’t do this.

“Yep,” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’.

“Why?” Why on Earth would Sherlock do something so reckless? “Why Lock?”

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned by his brother’s anguish. “I was bored. School’s boring; nothing to distract me. I needed something to get rid of the boredom. Hence, the cocaine.”

“You were bored?” Mycroft repeated with disbelief. Sherlock had turned to drugs because he was _bored_? No, he wouldn’t do that, there had to be something else.

Sherlock shrugged again. “What’s it matter? I don’t use all the time; I’m not an addict. I simply got tired of surrounding myself with so many ordinary people. Everyone is boring anymore. The cocaine helps with that.”

“There are other ways to combat boredom Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He was aware that he sounded desperate, but he really didn’t care. His brother, his _baby brother_ was a junkie! Why wasn’t he informed of this?

“Why would you care Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his tone far too casual. “You didn’t care when I was attacked. You obviously haven’t bothered to get in contact with me after that week almost a year ago. You can stop pretending to be the caring big brother now. That man’s dead and gone, killed because of politics. Leave me alone Mycroft; you’re ruining my good mood.”

Mycroft had nothing to do but obey, his mind still spinning. Sherlock was doing drugs? What the hell was Mycroft going to do now?

_I was haulin’ this hay to Uncle Joe’s farm;_

_Thought of us barefoot kids in the yard._

_Man it seems like we were just catchin’ snakes in the barn,_

_Now you’re caught up in this mess._

Mycroft sat at his desk, staring blankly at the papers in front of him. His mind was racing in circles, past and present merging together. Sherlock, four years old, nearly burned down the house with his chemistry set. Sherlock, nearly twenty, doing drugs in his flat on campus. Sherlock, eight years old, saying that Mycroft was his favorite person. Sherlock, eighteen, believing that his older brother abandoned him. How did it come to this? His baby brother, his main responsibility, was deemed less important than his own career, and so Sherlock falls through the cracks. _And so he falls,_ Mycroft thought grimly, looking over the latest surveillance tapes on his brother. Nothing had changed from when he had last looked. Sherlock was mouthing off to teachers, injecting himself with startling regularity, and had several periods of near suicidal depression. How had it come to this? It seems like only yesterday they were wandering the grounds of the Manor, observing and talking and laughing; happy.

_I could use a little help unloading these bales;_

_I could keep you pretty busy with a hammer and a nail._

_Ain’t a glamorous life but it’ll keep you outta jail,_

_Not worry us all to death._

“I do wish you would reconsider,” Mycroft said, his voice as close to pleading as it has been in many years. Only Sherlock could reduce him to this.

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock said, leaning back against the pillows of his hospital bed. Sherlock had been found several hours earlier by Inspector Lestrade, OD’ing in his dingy, disgusting flat. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Lestrade had went to see Sherlock…Mycroft really didn’t want to think about that. “I have no interest in your case. Go away and leave me in peace.”

“Sherlock please,” Mycroft said, surprising himself by actually begging. “This would be good for you. You seemed so much better after helping Inspector Lestrade with his case…”

“Yes, and I have already spoken to Lestrade,” Sherlock cut in, his voice sharp. “I have agreed to go to rehab and actually stay. If I get clean, Lestrade will consult me on cases.”

Mycroft tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy at the thought that Inspector Lestrade had managed in less than a month what Mycroft had been attempting for five years. “What will you do when there are gaps between cases?”

Sherlock shrugged, appearing indifferent to Mycroft’s worry. “I’ll advertise, get my own cases sometimes. I’ll get paid for those ones, even if I only take the interesting ones.”

“You would get paid for the cases I bring you as well,” Mycroft replies quickly. He had enough influence now that no one would criticize him for paying his brother to solve cases he just couldn’t be bothered to take, ones that were interesting yet weren’t a security risk. “Please ‘Lock…”

“Don’t,” Sherlock spat, “Don’t. You have no right Mycroft, not anymore.”

Mycroft left after that. It wouldn’t do to anger Sherlock now, not when he was still so fragile. His mission was accomplished regardless; Sherlock was going to get clean. He tried to ignore the fact that a simple DI had managed what he had been unable too; he tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock had ignored his pleas and offers, yet accepted another’s. _He doesn’t trust you,_ an inner voice mocked, _And whose fault is that?_

_Homeboy, you’re gonna wish one day_

_You were sitting on the gate of a truck by the lake,_

_With your high school flame on one side, ice cold beer on the other._

_Ain’t no shame in a blue collar forty,_

_Little house, little kids, little small town story._

_If you don’t ever do anything else for me just do this for me brother._

_Come on home boy._

_Come on home boy._

Standing in the darkened warehouse across from Doctor Watson, Mycroft tried to ignore the stab of jealousy. Two days. In two days, this man had managed to get close to his brother. They were flatmates, and Sherlock had taken him to a crime scene. This was the closest Sherlock had come to a normal relationship since he turned nineteen. What about the ex-soldier had made his brother decide to trust him? Mycroft wished that he knew; he really did. If he knew, then perhaps he would be able to replicate the results, perhaps he could reconnect with his brother. _Foolish dreams,_ Mycroft sneered at himself, and yet he couldn’t think of much else throughout his conversation with the good doctor. He did his best to ensure that John Watson would stay, because someone needed to look after his brother and if he couldn’t do it, John Watson seemed as good a choice as any, better than most.

_You can’t hold back the hands of time;_

_Momma’s going grey, and so is daddy’s mind._

_I wish you’d come on back and make it all right,_

_Before they’re called home boy._

He hadn’t considered this. Everything that has happened since Sherlock refused to speak to him, from childish taunts to covert surveillance, he had never assumed that this would happen. He had always assumed that, at some point, Sherlock would listen to him, would realize how much Mycroft regrets his mistake. He would forgive him, and then things would go back to the way they were before Mycroft left for University. Staring at the papers Doctor Watson left, he knows now that that time is limited, that Sherlock may never forgive him. Doctor Watson was certainly angry enough for both of them, but Sherlock had never shown up. As soon as he stepped into the Stranger’s Room and found John Watson waiting for him, he had been waiting for Sherlock to turn up demanding an explanation. When that didn’t happen, Mycroft began to worry anew. Did Sherlock realize how sorry he was for his mistakes, both past and present? Would he ever get the chance to apologize? Would his brother ever forgive him?

_Homeboy,_

_Come on home boy._

_Homeboy,_

_Come on home boy._

Kneeling in front of the black marble tombstone, Mycroft lets a decade’s worth of tears flow. Here, the only ones to witness his mask breaking wouldn’t tell, so he was safe to sob out his grief, to apologize to a stone for sins long agonized over. He let the words he had never been able to say aloud flow. Throughout everything, the arguments and tantrums and stony silences, the begging and pleading.

“Please ‘Lock, come home,” he whispered, his tears falling silently to rest on the flowers he had left on the grave. “Come back, please. Come home.”


	8. Last Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She just can't take it anymore. After Harry left, she tried to move on, but that's becoming increasingly difficult each time Harry calls her.  
> Harry/Clara, Clara POV. Mentions of Alcoholism

_I recognized your number;_

_It’s burned into my brain._

_Felt my heart beating faster_

_Every time it rang._

_Some things never change._

Clara was just leaving work when her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, freezing when she saw the name. **Harry Watson**. No, she couldn’t do this. Not now, not ever. Why was it that just when she thought she was moving on, making some progress, Harry would call. It was always the same; nothing ever changed.

_That’s why I didn’t answer._

_I bet you’re in a bar,_

_Listening to a country song._

_Glass of Johnny Walker red,_

_With no one to take you home._

_They’re probably closing down,_

_Saying “No more alcohol”._

_I bet you’re in a bar,_

_‘Cause I’m always your last call._

She closed her eyes, imagining the scene perfectly. Harry, sitting in a pub, completely pissed. That’s the only time that Harry bothered to call her anymore. She had walked out when things got tough, but whenever she was drunk she would call. It was always the same too. Sometimes, Harry would call her brother, but John had his own problems and he couldn’t help Harry any more than she could help herself. He had tried, she knew, but Harry wasn’t very receptive. When John fell through, as was happening more often these days, Harry called her. Why did she always have to call?

_I don’t need to check that message;_

_I know what it says._

_“Baby I still love you” don’t mean nothing when there’s whiskey on your breath._

_That’s the only love I get;_

Once the phone stopped ringing, the new message icon blinked on the screen. She didn’t need to look to know exactly what Harry was saying. When drunk, Harry would inevitably proclaim her affection and elaborate on how sorry she was. She would ask for another chance, promise that they could work things out. This was the only time Harry was affectionate anymore; one of the reasons that their marriage broke up. Clara needed confirmation when Harry was sober that she had value, and she wanted Harry to go to rehab. Unfortunately, Harry had no desire to sober up, and the bottle was more important than their marriage.

_So if you’re calling_

_I bet you’re in a bar_

_Listening to a cheatin’ song,_

_Glass of Johnny Walker red,_

_With no one to take you home._

_They’re probably closing down,_

_Saying “No more alcohol”._

_I bet you’re in a bar,_

_‘Cause I’m always your last_

_Call me crazy but I think maybe we’ve had our last call._

_I bet you’re in a bar._

_It’s always the same old song._

_That Johnny Walker red,_

_By now it’s almost gone._

_But baby I won’t be there,_

_To catch you when you fall._

_I bet you’re in a bar,_

_‘Cause I’m always your last call_

Clara thought about everything that had happened since she and Harry had met. She thought of the bubbly young woman, laughing and teasing her, making her swoon. She remembered romantic dinners, late nights and early mornings. She thought of how, as time passed, she noticed exactly how much Harry drank, and began to worry. She remembered how the worry led to rows, which led to Harry going to the pub and coming home completely sloshed. She thought about when Harry had walked out, saying that she got enough nagging from her brother, she didn’t need it from Clara too. She remembered that first call, the first of many, where Harry had offered drunken affection as Clara helped her home.

All of that passed through her mind as she picked up her phone. There was nothing else for it, not really. Harry had already given up and this was the first she had heard from her in months. Swallowing thickly, she dialed a familiar number and listened as it rang to voicemail. Harry more than likely couldn’t hear her phone over the noise of the pub.

“Harry, its Clara. I’m sorry, but it’s not working anymore. I can’t keep doing this. I hate seeing you like this. I think it would be best if we make it official, sign the papers. I don’t want to, but I can’t keep on like this. I keep hoping that you’ll quit; I’d give anything if you would. I know it’s not going to happen. I’ll call tomorrow; I know most of this will go over your head tonight. I just needed to tell you. I can’t handle being your last call Harry, not anymore. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”


	9. Remind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg had been dating for a while, and while things were still good, they had lost that spark. They needed a little reminder.  
> Mycroft/Greg

_We didn’t care if people stared,_

_When we’d make out in the crowd somewhere._

_Somebody’d tell us to get a room;_

_It’s hard to believe that was me and you._

It had always amused Greg that posh Mycroft Holmes, who basically was the British Government, would be able to lose himself so completely in a kiss. When they’d kiss, it was never just a kiss. They would end up making out, usually not stopping until they were out of breath or someone had yelled for them to get a room and stop acting like a pair of bloody teenagers. He was sure the only reason his boss hadn’t fired him yet was because of Mycroft.

_Now we keep sayin’ that we’re okay_

_And I don’t want to settle for good not great._

_I miss the way it felt back then,_

_I want to feel that way again._

Mycroft, sitting in his office pouring over papers for the Prime Minister, leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He couldn’t stop thinking about Greg, about their relationship. Everything had been perfect in the beginning, but something had changed. They were still good together, but they were no longer great. What had happened? He wished he knew. He missed the way it was and he wanted those times back. He missed the spontaneity, as well as the unbridled joy he and Greg had felt. It was still there, but it was fading.

_Been so long that you’d forget the way I used to kiss your neck._

_Remind me, remind me._

_So on fire, so in love;_

_Way back when we couldn’t get enough._

_Remind me, remind me._

Greg, sitting at his desk in his office at Scotland Yard, remembered the noise Mycroft made the first time they kissed. Surprised and happy and curious, all wrapped up in this sexy noise that made Greg pull him back in for another kiss immediately. He always made that noise whenever Greg took him by surprise with a kiss. With a pang, Greg realized it had been quite a while since he had heard that noise. Both of them had been busy and hadn’t really had the time for spontaneity. Making a quick decision, he pulled out his phone and sent Mycroft a text before turning back to his files.

**Remember that noise that you made whenever I surprised you with a kiss? I miss that noise-Lestrade**

_Remember the airport, dropping me off,_

_We were kissing goodbye and we couldn’t stop._

_I felt bad ‘cause you missed your flight,_

_But that meant we had one more night._

Mycroft read the text and smiled, recalling all the times in the past he had occasion to make that noise. One moment in particular stood out, when he was leaving for a rather important meeting with an American government official. Greg took him to the airport, as usual those days, and they had gotten carried away with their goodbye. They ended up booking a hotel room after Mycroft rescheduled his flight. He quickly sent a text back before returning to his papers with a small smile.

**I remember. Do you remember the time when your enthusiastic sendoff made me miss my plane, necessitating a hotel room and my rescheduling my meeting with the American President?-MH**

_Do you remember how it used to be?_

_We’d turn out the lights and didn’t just sleep._

_Remind me, baby remind me._

_Oh, so on fire, so in love;_

_That look in your eyes that I miss so much._

_Remind me, baby remind me._

Greg smiled as he read the message. At least he wasn’t the only one thinking about old times. He thought back to times when he wasn’t working and Mycroft took the day off and they would do absolutely nothing. He remembered Mycroft’s eyes heavy-lidded with a passion that was only ever directed at Greg. He remembered going to Mycroft’s posh house, or Mycroft going to Greg’s dingy flat. He missed sharing a bed with the younger man. It had been too long.

**I remember that.** **J** **Remember when I’d be off-duty and you’d clear your schedule just to come home and do absolutely nothing with me?-Lestrade**

_I wanna feel that way._

_Yeah I wanna hold you close._

_Oh if you still love me,_

_Don’t just assume I know._

_Oh baby remind me, remind me._

_Yeah_

Mycroft looked at the text, and there was a pang of sadness attached to the memory. He _had_ been extraordinarily busy lately, they both had, but he could have made time. He used to do it whenever possible, anything to spend an extra hour with Greg. Now, they could go two or three days without seeing each other because of their conflicting schedules. He didn’t love the other man any less, but there seemed to be less time in which to accomplish all that he needed to.

**Indeed, I remember that. Occasionally I would be late returning to the office, loath to leave. I will endeavor to do that more frequently in the future. I have seen entirely too little of you lately Gregory-MH**

_Oh do you remember the way it felt?_

_You mean back when we couldn’t control ourselves?_

_Remind me, yeah remind me._

_All those things that you used to do that made me fall in love with you,_

_Remind me, oh baby remind me._

Greg smiled as he read Mycroft’s text. He hoped that Mycroft was able to keep his promise; he was right, they saw too little of each other these days. He remembered how it was when they first got together. They never seemed able to control themselves, shoving back meetings and paperwork and whatever else to spend even more time together. Now, they were acting like adults with responsibilities again, but he missed that they had.

**I remember when you first asked me out. I didn’t think you could actually be any more posh, but you proved me wrong.** **J** **I remember you taking me back to my flat in one of those ever-present black cars of yours, and then you kissed me goodnight, like a good date.-Lestrade**

_Yeah you’d wake up in my old t-shirt;_

_All those mornings I was late for work._

_Remind me, oh baby remind me yeah._

_Oh baby remind me, baby remind me, yeah oh._

_Yeah you’d wake up in my old t-shirt._

Mycroft smiled. Yes, it had been too long.

**Yes, I remember that. I also remember other occasions where you had stayed the night, and I would wake to you, wearing one of my shirts and making breakfast. I was frequently late for work on those occasions.-MH**

_Baby, remind me._

Greg smiled as he read Mycroft’s text, remembering the times when the roles were reversed and Mycroft was the one making breakfast. He was about to send a new text when there was a knock at the door to his office.

“Come in,” Greg called, putting his phone in his pocket for now. There would be time to text Mycroft later; his shift ended in a few minutes after all.

Looking up to see who it was and praying it wasn’t Sherlock with one of his cases, he was surprised to see Mycroft leaning against his umbrella, watching him with a faint smile on his face.

“My?” Greg asked, getting out from behind his desk and approaching his boyfriend.

Mycroft pulled him into a kiss that had him gasping for air. Pulling back, face flushed, he shot a curious look at his boyfriend.

“The Prime Minister can wait until tomorrow for my report,” Mycroft said, tugging him closer. “I have more important things to think about right now, such as reminding my boyfriend why he puts up with me.”

Greg grinned. “I think I remember, but if you think you need too, remind me.”

Mycroft simply smiled as he led Greg from his office. He had plans on how he was going to remind the older man, and he expected that Greg was quite willing to be reminded.


	10. Should've Said No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft return early for a case which took them both out of the country and necessitated them working together. Sherlock heads home to Baker Street and is shocked at what he discovers.

_It’s strange to think, the songs we used to sing,_

_The smiles, the flowers, everything,_

_Is gone._

_Yesterday I found out about you;_

_Even now just lookin’ at you feels wrong._

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, looking at his brother with some surprise. Sherlock never visited him, not if it could be helped. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen Lestrade recently?” Sherlock asked, ignoring his elder brother’s question and agitatedly pacing the office.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked, frowning. “No, we only returned a few hours ago, and I’ve spent the time doing paperwork. Why? Has something happened?” Something approaching panic was in his voice, as he couldn’t imagine what he would do if something happened to Gregory.

“Oh, something’s happened,” Sherlock replied bitterly, tossing his phone at Mycroft. “I arrived home half an hour ago. It appears that we weren’t missed brother dear.”

Mycroft looked at the phone, seeing Gregory and Dr. Watson entwined, kissing desperately. “How…?”

“I entered quietly, hoping to surprise John,” Sherlock said, with a self-deprecating smile, “And I was the one who was surprised. They didn’t notice me, obviously. I left before I saw more. I knew you would need proof, like I would in your place.”

Mycroft stood from behind his desk and approached his pacing sibling. He enfolded the younger man in his arms, hugging him close. He felt Sherlock’s body shudder, and felt tears of his own slip down his cheeks. How could they do this?

“I don’t think I can go back to Baker Street right now,” Sherlock murmured into Mycroft’s chest. “I know we need to confront them, but I just can’t…”

“I understand Sherlock,” Mycroft soothed. He felt the same. The Holmes brothers trusted few and loved fewer. Sure, each had had their share of one night stands (for all Mycroft teased his brother about being a virgin, he knew that was not the case), but neither had ever been in love before. Finding out that Gregory and Dr. Watson were cheating, with each other, hurt them deeply.

* * *

 

The brothers stayed together, holed up in Mycroft’s office and lost in their thoughts. About three hours after Sherlock had arrived, both of their phones rang. They looked at them, unsure of what to do. John had texted Sherlock, while Greg was calling Mycroft. With shaking fingers, Sherlock picked up his phone to open the message.

**Do you know when you’ll be back? I miss you-JW**

Sherlock turned the phone to face Mycroft, his face blank. Mycroft picked up the phone after the call had gone to voicemail and played the message.

**“Hey My, it’s just Greg. Listen, do you know when you’ll be back? Yesterday you said it would only be a few more days. Hurry back, I miss you.”**

“What should we do now Mycroft?” Sherlock asked when the message ended.

“We need to let them know that we are aware of their little rendezvous,” Mycroft said, staring at his phone.

“Text Lestrade,” Sherlock said, “Your voice will give you away, especially when he talks to you. Tell him to meet you in the café down the road. I’ll do the same for John.”

“Do you think they will suspect something is amiss?” Mycroft asked, nimble fingers flying over the keys.

“No,” Sherlock replied, slipping his phone back in his pocket after the text was sent, “They’ll say it was coincidence, or that we needed them to be able to tolerate the excess time we would have to spend together.” He gave his brother a wan smile. For all their arguments, they did love each other, although they never showed it when others were around.

_You say that you take it all back,_

_Given one chance, it was a moment of weakness,_

_And you said yes._

“Sherlock,” John said, greeting the younger man warmly as he entered with Greg. He was confused when Sherlock dodged his hug, noticing Mycroft did the same with Greg. _What’s going on?_

“Is something wrong My?” Greg asked, eyeing the younger man curiously. Both he and Sherlock had been exceptionally subdued, something that worried the copper.

“We know Greg,” Mycroft said, his voice heavy. He couldn’t look at Greg, instead focusing on his tea. Sherlock slipped his hand in his under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze which he returned.

“Know what?” Greg asked, slight confusion mixing with faint apprehension. _They can’t know, right?_

“We know about you and John, and how you spent your time while Mycroft and I were away,” Sherlock said flatly. “This obviously wasn’t the first time you had done this. When were the others? When I was working a case and you couldn’t help because you had work the next day John, and Mycroft was working late so you were free as well Lestrade?”

“I noticed that you would return from the pub rather late when you met John, but I had assumed that you were simply conversing,” Mycroft said, picking up where his brother left off. “What astounds me is how you were able to fool us. Did love truly make us that blind?” The last question was directed towards Sherlock, who nodded grimly.

“Wait,” John said, holding up his hands.

“You’ve got the wrong idea,” Greg added, looking from one Holmes to the other. “I was drunk, My, you had been away for a week…”

“Sherlock you were working on the case of the serial arsonist and I hadn’t talked to you in as long, and I’d had a fair bit to drink too,” John continued.

“And one thing led to another…”

“And we didn’t really consider what had happened until the next morning.”

_You should’ve said no, you should’ve gone home;_

_You should’ve thought twice ‘fore you let it all go._

_You should’ve known the word of what you did with her get back to me,_

_Get back to me._

_And I should’ve been there in the back of your mind,_

_I shouldn’t be askin’ myself why._

_You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet._

_You should’ve said no, baby, and you might still have me._

Sherlock shook his head while Mycroft sighed. “And instead of coming to us and telling us this, you decide to keep doing it.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Sherlock interrupted his brother. “They know that we are dedicated to our work. They also know that all they have to do if we become too absorbed is to tell us what they need. I thought I had made it clear John, that you were more important to me than the Work.”

“And I thought the same Gregory,” Mycroft sighed, raising one hand to rub at his temples.

_You can see that I’ve been cryin’,_

_Baby, you know all the right things to say._

_But do you honestly expect me to believe that we could ever be the same?_

_You say that the past is all past,_

_Given one chance, it was a moment of weakness,_

_And you said yes._

“Sherlock, it was a mistake,” John said, blue eyes gazing beseechingly at his flatmate and lover. “I love you, you know that.”

“Mycroft, it didn’t mean anything,” Greg said to his Holmes. “I didn’t mean it. I love you.”

“It was an accident….”

“It won’t happen again…”

_You should’ve said no, you should’ve gone home;_

_You should’ve thought twice ‘fore you let it all go._

_You should’ve known the word of what you did with her get back to me,_

_Get back to me._

_And I should’ve been there in the back of your mind,_

_I shouldn’t be askin’ myself why._

_You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet._

_You should’ve said no, baby, and you might still have me._

“You’re right, it won’t,” Sherlock snapped. “If you honestly think that we would trust you after this, then you are bloody insane.” Mycroft gripped his brother’s hand tightly. Sherlock rarely swore, and only did so when he was agitated.

“I agree with Sherlock,” Mycroft said, ice blue eyes focused on the men across from him and his brother. “You should have realized that we would figure it out eventually, and that when we did this would happen.”

“Sherlock please,” John begged, “Give me another chance.”

“My, please,” Greg implored, looking at his lover. “It won’t happen again, I swear. Give me another chance, please.”

_I can’t resist,_

_Before you go tell me this;_

_Was she worth it?_

_Was she worth this?_

Mycroft shook his head, rising and picking up his umbrella. “You are right, Gregory, this won’t happen again, as we are through.”

Sherlock stood beside his brother, fastening his scarf around his neck. “I can’t help it, I need to know,” Sherlock said, looking from one to the other, “Was this worth it?”

“Sherlock…” John began.

“Mycroft…” Greg tried.

_No, no, no, no_

_You should’ve said no, you should’ve gone home;_

_You should’ve thought twice ‘fore you let it all go._

_You should’ve known the word of what you did with her get back to me,_

_Get back to me._

_And I should’ve been there in the back of your mind,_

_I shouldn’t be askin’ myself why._

_You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet._

_You should’ve said no, baby, and you might still have me._

Both Holmes brothers shook their heads. “If you wanted to avoid this outcome, you shouldn’t have slept together in the first place,” Sherlock pointed out.

“This situation would have been easily avoided,” Mycroft agreed. “I think we are done here brother.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, before turning pale blue eyes on John. They contained none of the warmth the young man usually showed John, instead filled with icy contempt. “I will stop by Baker Street to collect my things soon.”

“I will have one of my people drop off all of your possessions that are in my flat Gregory,” Mycroft said.

The two Holmes brothers walked away, getting into one of Mycroft’s ever-present black cars.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said, parroting what Mycroft had said when he’d mistakenly believed that Sherlock was mourning Irene Adler.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Mycroft muttered. “You’ll stay with me at my house for a few days? I think I need to get away from the city for a time, and you look as though you could use some country air as well.”

“Neither John or Lestrade know where your country house is,” Sherlock said, reading between the lines. “Sounds perfect.”


	11. Who's Cheatin' Who

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is an incredibly brilliant man, but there is always one thing that he misses. This time, he missed that his partner was having an affair.
> 
> Greg/Mycroft, implied Greg/John, implied past Mycroft/Sherlock asexual relationship

_Everywhere you look you can write a book on the trouble of a woman and a man._

_But you cannot impose,_

_You can’t stick your nose,_

_Into something that you don’t understand._

Mycroft Holmes was an intelligent man. Some would say that he was more intelligent than his brother, and that was something even Sherlock himself agreed with (privately, of course). Mycroft was the behind the scenes agent for the government, settling disputes that other politicians had no hope of solving and coming up with creative plans easily within seconds. He saw things that others missed, like his brother did. He wasn’t easily confused, but he would admit to being as mystified as Sherlock was by the complexities of relationships. Perhaps it baffled him more, as his little brother didn’t care.

_Still you wonder_

_Who’s cheatin’ who,_

_Who’s being true,_

_Who don’t even care anymore._

_It makes you wonder_

_Who’s doing right with someone tonight,_

_And whose car is parked next door._

He stormed up the stairs to 221b Baker Street, a sharp contrast to his usual poise. He didn’t knock, merely flung the door of the flat open, knowing it would be unlocked. Sherlock was perched on a stool at the kitchen table, looking at something under the microscope. He looked up in surprise as Mycroft stormed in.

“Mycroft, what happened?” Sherlock asked, swiveling around to look at his brother, his back to the microscope. Most people assumed that the brothers hated each other, but then, most people were idiots. They had a front up, so that no one would attempt to use one of them against the other, but that front came down whenever they were alone.

“Do you know where John is?” Mycroft asked, ignoring his brother’s question as he began to pace the small kitchen, his umbrella tapping the floor agitatedly.

“John?” Sherlock repeated, nonplussed. “He told me he had a date. I estimated that this one is male, approximately John’s age, perhaps a few years older, and has some sort of demanding job.”

“Yes Sherlock, John’s date matches that description, but you failed to observe one crucial detail,” Mycroft said, halting his agitated pacing and facing his brother. “Your dear doctor is on a date with my partner!”

Sherlock blinked. “I beg your pardon?” John wouldn’t do something that selfish would he? He didn’t seem the type to sleep with a man in a committed relationship. Lestrade also didn’t seem like the type who would stray.

“I just returned from settling a minor conflict,” Mycroft replied, resuming his pacing. “I wasn’t supposed to return for another week at least, but I was able to smooth things over more easily than expected. I decided to surprise Gregory, and checked his surveillance to see where he was. He was getting out of his car at a pub. John Watson pulled up in a cab a few seconds later. I assumed that they were merely meeting to talk, until…”

“Until…?” Sherlock probed, standing and making his way around the table and stepping neatly in his brother’s path.

Mycroft’s expression was heartbroken as he said, “Until they kissed.”

_I thought I knew her well,_

_I really couldn’t tell,_

_That she had another lover on her mind._

_You see, it felt so right when she held me tight,_

_How could I be so blind?_

“How could I have missed this?” Mycroft asked, shaking his head and attempting to burrow deeper into the blanket that Sherlock had wrapped around him. He had been forced into a seat on the sofa with an admonishment not to move while his younger brother made tea and had gratefully accepted the blanket that had been draped over him.

“You didn’t believe that he would cheat, his character was supposedly above reproach,” Sherlock answered, returning with two cups of tea. “Both of their characters were, in that regard. Neither gave any sign that they would do something like this.”

Sherlock sat the tea on the coffee table before sitting on the couch beside his brother. He tugged the edge of the blanket closest to him free and slid closer to his brother, closing the blanket around them. He loosened the blanket enough that they could drink their tea, but still stayed next to his brother. Mycroft was hurt and he needed Sherlock beside him. For all that he appeared to be ‘the Iceman’ in public, he was very different with his brother.

_Still you wonder_

_Who’s cheatin’ who,_

_Who’s being true,_

_Who don’t even care anymore._

_It makes you wonder_

_Who’s doing right with someone tonight._

_Whose car is parked next door?_

“I should let him know that I know what he’s doing,” Mycroft murmured, roughly an hour after he had entered 221b. Mycroft’s head was leaning against his brother’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to be there My?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft reflected that he must look a sight, as Sherlock hadn’t called him My since they were children.

“Yes,” he whispered, closing his eyes. Most people expected Mycroft to be strong all the time. Even Gregory expected that from him. Sherlock was the only one who didn’t expect him to be the strong one all the time. “I would appreciate that ‘Lock.”

While Mycroft composed the text he wished to send, informing Lestrade where he wanted to meet and when (although he didn’t disclose the reason why), Sherlock mused on the different ways he could get rid of Lestrade without being caught. He might not get any more interesting cases from Scotland Yard, but it would be worth it if he was able to make Lestrade feel even one-tenth of the pain Mycroft felt.

“Stay here for the night My,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around his brother as soon as the message was sent. “My bed’s big enough for two.” _And you shouldn’t be alone right now,_ he thought.

Mycroft didn’t want to be alone, but he also didn’t want to run into John. “Sherlock, I don’t think…” He was interrupted when the younger Holmes’ phone beeped.

Sherlock glanced at the number before opening the text, scowling as he read it. “You don’t have to worry about John coming back My,” he said, turning his phone so his brother could read the message.

**I’m going back to my date’s house tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t blow up the flat while I’m gone-John**

Mycroft’s stomach dropped further at that, but he ignored it. “Very well Sherlock,” he said, “I’ll stay the night.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can have my bed. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to sleep upstairs.”

_A heart is on the line each and every time_

_Love is stolen in the shadows of the night._

_Though it’s wrong all along it keeps going on,_

_As long as you keep it outta sight._

Mycroft nodded, but when he stood up he held out a hand for Sherlock. “Please,” was all he said, but it was enough.

When Sherlock was fourteen, he discovered that he had no sexual urges whatsoever. He also felt no physical attraction to anyone, male or female. When he told Mycroft, the older Holmes confirmed that Sherlock was more than likely asexual. Mycroft had identified as homosexual at the same age, although he hadn’t told their parents. Siger Holmes wasn’t the most tolerant of men, and he wouldn’t take kindly to the news that neither of his heirs had any interest in women.

While Sherlock had no desire for sex, he did desire intimacy. Hugging, cuddling, and the occasional closed mouth kiss were all he wanted, but finding another his age who would respect his desire for a non-sexual relationship was difficult. It didn’t help that Sherlock despised others his age.

That’s where Mycroft stepped in. He loved his little brother, of course he did, and Sherlock had been the most important person in his life for a long time. It was easy for Sherlock and Mycroft to fall into a relationship. They weren’t able to be together often, only when Mycroft was able to visit, but it worked for both of them.

Mycroft admitted that he didn’t find Sherlock sexually attractive, to which Sherlock replied that he hoped that would be the case, as that’s how he felt about Mycroft. Mycroft had any number of one-night stands before he and his brother had begun their odd relationship, and he simply continued that now. He never became emotionally invested in any of these relationships, as his heart belonged to Sherlock.

They continued their relationship for many years, until Sherlock was eighteen and on his way to University and Mycroft met someone interesting enough to have a real relationship with. He still loved Sherlock, but he wanted to try to have a normal relationship for once.

Sherlock hadn’t reacted well, which led to the drugs, which led to Sherlock’s unconventional introduction to Mycroft’s boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade. He offered Sherlock cases in return for getting clean and the thin genius had accepted, if only because he knew how much Mycroft hated the drugs.

Throughout the years, Sherlock had noticed small things that hadn’t added up, but he dismissed his concerns. If Lestrade was cheating, Mycroft would have realized it. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

Sherlock took Mycroft’s hand, letting his older brother pull him to his feet, before giving him a small smile as he was led to his bedroom. “I haven’t slept with anyone since I was eighteen.”

Mycroft gave his brother a sad smile. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You did what you thought was best, for both of us. You didn’t know how I felt; I never told you.”

Mycroft had nothing to say to that, so he put on the pajamas his assistant had brought over hours before, and slid into bed beside his brother. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding him close.

_Still you wonder_

_Who’s cheatin’ who,_

_And who’s being true,_

_Who don’t even care anymore._

_It makes you wonder_

_Who’s doing right with someone tonight,_

_Whose car is parked next door._

Sherlock followed his brother into the café, easily picking Lestrade out from among the other patrons. The man was on his phone, but hung up as they approached.

“Hey,” he said, standing to hug Mycroft. He was surprised when the younger man dodged out of the way, taking a seat quickly. “What are you doing here Sherlock?” he asked as the younger genius took a seat beside his brother, leaving Greg to sit across from them.

“I asked him to accompany me Gregory,” Mycroft said, looking at the handle of his umbrella as he spoke. “I needed his support.”

“You needed _Sherlock’s_ help?” Greg asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “But that is neither here nor there. I requested that you meet me here Gregory for one simple reason. I know.”

“You know?” Greg asked, nonplussed. “What do you know?”

“I know about your relationship with John Watson,” Mycroft said, his voice flat. He looked up in time to see the panic flash across Greg’s face.

Greg shook his head. There was no point in denying it. If Mycroft was bringing it up, then he had evidence to back it up. “How did you find out?”

Mycroft gave a hollow laugh. “It shows how much faith I had in you that it took me this long to find out. John isn’t your first lover, although he is the most serious, am I right? Each time I was away for an extended period of time, you found someone else.”

Greg sighed. “What do you want me to say? Yes, I cheated on you. I honestly don’t know how you didn’t find out earlier. Yes, John and I are getting serious. He doesn’t know about you.”

“Why did you cheat Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, pale eyes narrowed. He knew Mycroft would want to know, but he also knew that his brother wouldn’t be able to ask.

“I got tired of playing second fiddle to politics,” Greg snapped. “You missed more dates and cancelled more dinners than even I did. I got tired of waiting for whenever you could be bothered to show up. You spent more time with Sherlock than you did with me sometimes, and you two hate each other.”

_Still you wonder_

_Who’s cheatin’ who,_

_And who’s being true,_

_Who don’t even care anymore._

_It makes you wonder_

_Who’s doing right with someone tonight,_

_Whose car is parked next door._

Sherlock laughed. “You’re a fool Lestrade, if you believe that I actually hate Mycroft. I forgave him long ago.”

“And I have never hated Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his ice blue eyes hard. “I desired a more conventional relationship, and I believed Sherlock would be better off with someone with his same sexual preferences, but I never hated him.”

“Why is he here now?” Greg asked, changing tactics. “Have you been having an affair with him?”

Mycroft raised one rust colored eyebrow. “My brother and I have not been in a relationship since we split years ago Gregory. Please stop trying to change the subject. I know, and I think that it would be best if we went our separate ways. I will send my assistant to give you anything that you have left at my residence.” With that, both Holmes brothers stood, Sherlock noticing that Mycroft couldn’t stand to be there any longer. There was just one more thing to take care of.

_Still you wonder_

_Who’s cheatin’ who,_

_And who’s being true,_

_Who don’t even care anymore._

_It makes you wonder_

_Who’s doing right with someone tonight,_

_Whose car is parked next door._

“He was dating _Mycroft_?” John asked, eyes wide.

“Yes John,” Sherlock sighed, sipping the tea that John had automatically made when the two Holmes brothers entered 221b.

“And he was using me, to cheat on you?” John questioned, looking from one brother to the other.

Mycroft could only nod, afraid that if he spoke he would break down.

“That lying bastard,” John finished, blue eyes hard.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock muttered. John looked at his friend, noticing for the first time how close he was to Mycroft. He knew better than to ask though. Sherlock would tell him eventually, in his own way, in his own time.

 _Who was cheating who,_ Mycroft wondered, listening to Sherlock and John plot revenge. _Gregory is right about the amount of time I have been spending with Sherlock since his return, and that I have had less time to spend with him. Perhaps it is better this way, rather than continuing on with that farce of a relationship. In my darker moments I had wondered what kept Gregory away, which led to my staying away. Now, I no longer have to wonder. Gregory cheated on me, but I cheated on him as well, emotionally at any rate. So really, who cheated who?_


	12. Dancing Away With My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet at a party. They spend one night talking and laughing before Thorin leaves, unable to leave his quest even as he doesn't want to leave behind his new friend. Years later, they meet when a meddling wizard decides that Bilbo needs more adventure in his life and sends Thorin and his Company to the Shire  
> Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield  
> Very minor spoilers for The Hobbit book/movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first Hobbit story I'm posting with this, but this song is perfect for those two. Btw, I do take requests.

_I finally asked you to dance on the last slow song,_

_Beneath that moon that was really a disco ball._

He was beautiful. Short as Thorin was tall, with honey-blonde curls and dancing green eyes. He seemed to like to dance, and he had no shortage of partners, but he never danced more than once with any of them. According to Hobbit custom (which still seemed so odd to the visiting Dwarf), that meant that he wasn’t considering any of them as future partners, even short-term ones.

Thorin shouldn’t have been so happy about that, but he was.

All night he watched the other, waiting and watching, before he finally gathered up his courage. He chose to approach the hobbit during the last song, so he wouldn’t have to know if he wasn’t interested.

It was a slow song, and he didn’t think he imagined the delight in the other’s eyes as he accepted. He was shocked when the hobbit murmured, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask all night.”

_I can still feel my head on your shoulder,_

_And hoping that song would never be over._

Bilbo had watched the dwarf throughout the night.

At first it was curiosity, as there were few dwarrows that visited the Shire.

Then, it was because of how handsome the other was, with his long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and his almost regal bearing.

Finally, however, it was because he knew the dwarf was watching him, and that made him hope that he would be asked to dance.

When the dwarf finally plucked up the courage to come over, he couldn’t help his slightly cheeky remark. The dwarf’s laugh made him smile, and he rested his head against his shoulder in contentment. Even though he knew it was fruitless, Bilbo hoped the song would never end, so he could stay in this moment with his mysterious dwarf forever.

_I haven’t seen you in ages._

_Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are._

_For me you’ll always be eighteen,_

_And beautiful, and dancing away with my heart._

Sometimes, Bilbo wondered what had happened to Thorin. The dwarf had left the next morning, barely giving Bilbo the opportunity to tell him good-bye. He tries not to think about it, as it’s painful to remember at times, but he can’t help himself. It’s been years since he last saw Thorin, and he has no idea where the dwarf went or what he was doing. Still, whenever he pictured him, he never tried to guess at what he was doing now. No, Bilbo always remembered how Thorin looked that night, watching him, dancing with him, laughing with him. That is how he’ll always remember Thorin, until they meet again, if they ever do.

******

Thorin scowled down at the sword he was crafting. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop picturing the hobbit. Bilbo. He had said his name was Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins. Such a strange little creature, yet so utterly lovely. Thorin cast his mind back to the night of the dance, seeing his hobbit twirling around the floor, feeling the jealousy that had coursed through him. Remembering the mirth he felt conversing with Bilbo, as the hobbit had a quick wit.

He knows that it is foolish. He hasn’t had any contact with Bilbo since he left the Shire, and anything could have happened since then. Bilbo had no way of contacting him, as Thorin hadn’t told him where he was going. He hadn’t even told him his last name.

He liked to pretend sometimes, at least for a little while, that he had never left his hobbit behind. He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he invited Bilbo along, or if he had stayed with the hobbit. Thorin didn’t dwell on these thoughts often. Instead, his subconscious invariably drug up the one night he had spent with the hobbit, preserving him as though he hadn’t aged a day. He wouldn’t, in Thorin’s mind anyway. Thorin preserved that memory, knowing that he more than likely would never see Bilbo Baggins again.

Instead, Thorin remembered how he acted that night, and how he looked. Beautiful and carefree, as he stole the prince’s heart.

_I brushed your curls back so I could see your eyes._

Thorin brushed Bilbo’s honeyed curls away from his face, revealing eyes that sparkled more brightly than the most precious emeralds. He considered telling Bilbo this, and then promptly discarded that thought. He would have to leave in the morning, moving on to the next place where he could peddle his wares to try to feed his family. It wouldn’t be right to say something like that to the hobbit, not if he couldn’t follow through on the promise he wanted to make with it.

_And the way you moved me was like you were reading my mind._

Bilbo had never had a better dance partner than Thorin. The dwarf had a natural grace that leant itself easily to dancing. The difference in their height amused him, simply because the dwarf was very graceful for someone so bloody tall.

At times, while they spun gracefully around the dance floor, it seemed as though Thorin had read his mind, because some of the steps were not in a common waltz, and they were particular to hobbit dances. He hoped the dwarf didn’t know what the careful steps meant, as it was wrong of him to promise something like that. Thorin was leaving soon after all.

_I can still feel you lean in to kiss me._

Thorin remembered the kiss, soft and slow and oh so sweet, right before he left the Shire. He remembered the rather appealing flush that had appeared on Bilbo’s cheeks after his daring maneuver. He remembered the shock that had coursed through him, when the hobbit had pressed his plump lips to Thorin’s slightly chapped ones.

“Be safe,” he had whispered, and Thorin could do nothing but nod before he set off, waiting until he was out of sight to touch his fingers to his lips.

He can almost feel the press of Bilbo’s lips against his even now.

_I can’t help but wonder if you ever miss me._

Bilbo knew it was masochistic, and he knew that it would hurt him in the long run, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Thorin ever missed him. They had spent one night together, talking and laughing and dancing. They had done nothing more, shared nothing more intimate than a chaste kiss good-bye and several stories. Neither had promised anything, as they both knew that some promises would always be broken.

It’s rare for a hobbit to court someone out of their species after all.

It’s even more unheard of for a dwarf to do so.

Bilbo sometimes wondered if Thorin ever missed him, but he wasn’t certain if he really wanted to know the answer.

_I haven’t seen you in ages._

_Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are._

_For me you’ll always be eighteen,_

_And beautiful, and dancing away with my heart._

Sometimes, Bilbo wondered if it would have been better for him if he hadn’t gone to that party at all. He would have never met Thorin, would never have been curious about him, and would never have fallen in love with him. He would be an ordinary hobbit, settling down with another hobbit and raising a brood.

Instead, he was ‘Mad Baggins’ of Bag-End, haunted by memories of sky-blue eyes and a regal demeanor. He knew it was unhealthy, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Thorin. He imagined where the dwarf could be now, and the location always varied. One thing that remained the same, however, was Thorin’s looks. He had never considered what the other would look like now, as to Bilbo, he would remain how he looked that on that one night where he stole the hobbit’s heart.

******

Thorin started when the Wizard told him that their burglar would be found in the Shire. He wondered, briefly, about _his_ hobbit, then promptly squashed that thought. Bilbo wasn’t his. It was likely that he had found a nice hobbit lad or lass and settled down and forgotten all about Thorin. After all, they had spent one night together, nothing more. He hadn’t bothered to try to contact the hobbit. Even though he would never admit it, Thorin was afraid. Afraid of what had happened to Bilbo after they parted. It was better, in his mind anyway, to remember Bilbo how he was, and not worry about how he is now. It’s not like they’ll see each other again.

_You headed off to college at the end of that summer and we lost touch._

Bilbo sometimes wondered why Thorin had left. He knew the dwarf had a mission, but the other had never spoken of it. He knew it was something important, and something that weighed heavily on Thorin’s mind, but beyond that he didn’t know. The dwarf had become sad whenever Bilbo had hinted at it, so the hobbit carefully avoided it.

It was why he hadn’t pushed when Thorin never told him his last name, or where he was going. There were some things the dwarf wasn’t comfortable sharing. So, Thorin left and Bilbo had never heard from him again.

That is, until a wizard decided that the hobbit would be the perfect addition to the quest.

_I guess I didn’t realize even at the moment we lost so much._

Thorin wandered the green hills of the Shire, lost in memories. He went to the field where the party had been held. He stood there, recalling how the hobbit, _his_ hobbit, had looked. It struck him then how much he truly lost when he turned away from Bilbo. He couldn’t stay, but he could have kept in contact.

He only noticed after the sun had set that he was behind schedule. His company needed to be informed that the dwarves of the Iron Hills wouldn’t assist them, and he needed to scope out this burglar.

He knocked on the green door with the rune, wondering just how annoying this hobbit would be. He had little tolerance for hobbits in general; the only exception to that rule was Bilbo.

_I haven’t seen you in ages._

_Sometimes I find myself wondering where you are._

_For me you’ll always be eighteen,_

_And beautiful, and dancing away with my heart._

“Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce you to….” Gandalf began, but Bilbo cut him off.

“Thorin?” the hobbit questioned, hardly believing what he was seeing. But it really was Thorin, with more grey in his beard and more lines around his eyes, but it was still _Thorin_!

“Bilbo?” the dwarf asked, looking at the hobbit in front of him. Same honey-blonde curls, same emerald green eyes. He seemed more tired, less innocent, than he had been, and there were a few lines at the corners of his eyes, but it was definitely _Bilbo_!

“Thorin,” the hobbit breathed, reaching out a shaking hand to touch Thorin’s face. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I thought the same,” Thorin said, holding the hobbit’s hand to his cheek. He cared little for what the others would think. Right now nothing, not even Erebor, was more important than his hobbit.

_Nah, nah, nah, nah,_

_Nah, nah, nah, nah,_

_Nah, nah, nah, nah._

_Away with my heart._

_Nah, nah, nah, nah,_

_Nah, nah, nah, nah,_

_Nah, nah, nah, nah._

“You didn’t ask why I couldn’t stay,” Thorin said later on. The others had turned in for the night, while he and Bilbo went to sit outside and smoke.

“I never needed to,” was Bilbo’s simple response. “You needed to go, that much was evident, and it pained you to think about it. You were mine for one night Thorin. Your quest may have consumed you and excluded all else, but I have only ever had eyes for you.”

“I still think of that night,” Thorin confessed, turning to face his hobbit as he said, “You were beautiful, dancing and laughing. It was only afterwards, once I had time to reflect, that I realized that you had stolen my heart away. You make a fine burglar Bilbo Baggins.”

“About as fine as you, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo replied, leaning his head against Thorin’s shoulder, sighing happily when Thorin put his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders.

More would need to be discussed, of course, but for now hobbit and dwarf were content to sit in silence, both remembering the night that had started this. The night they watched their true love dancing away with their heart.


	13. This Ain't Nothin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following an Orc raid on Erebor, Thorin talks to Gandalf about what is important and what isn't.  
> Thorin/Bilbo, slightly AU, set in the AU future after BoFA where all the Company live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on writing another of these so soon, but this song was made for Thorin.

_He was standing in the rubble of an old farmhouse outside Birmingham_

_When some on the scene reporter stuck a camera in the face of that old man_

_He said "tell the folks please mister, what are you gonna do_

_Now that this twister has taken all that's dear to you"_

_The old man just smiled and said "boy let me tell you something, this ain't nothing"_

“What will you do know Thorin, now that all dear to you has been lost?” Gandalf queried, leaning on his staff and peering at the grey-haired dwarf king.

Thorin shook his head, looking around at the chaos that was Erebor, before he laughed bitterly. “This is nothing Gandalf, absolutely nothing. We were unprepared for this raid, but my people fought well and still have their home. We will need to rebuild, and even if we couldn’t…this still would be nothing, nothing compared to other things I have seen.”

_He said I lost my daddy, when I was eight years old,_

_That cave-in at the Kincaid mine left a big old hole,_

“Consider Gandalf,” Thorin said, when it looked like the wizard was going to protest, “I lost my father and grandfather in the battle for the mines of Moria. I watched as the Defiler lifted my grandfather’s head high in the air after he had severed it from Thror’s neck.”

_And I lost my baby brother, my best friend and my left hand_

_In a no win situation in a place called Vietnam_

“I lost Frerin in that battle as well, along with several friends and even more of my people,” Thorin continued. “There were barely a dozen of us left alive at the end of the battle, and we still have no news of what happened to Thrain.”

_And last year I watched my loving wife, of fifty years waste away and die_

_And I held her hand til her heart of gold stopped pumping,_

_So this ain't nothin'_

“And I watched as the kindest, gentlest creature in Middle Earth risked his life to save my own, even after I proved I was unworthy of his affections,” Thorin continued, his voice thick as he thought about his Consort. “He then traversed Middle Earth to destroy that cursed ring, keeping us all safe, and I could do nothing as he began to wither away, dying far too soon.”

“He lived to be a ripe old age for a hobbit,” Gandalf interjected, getting a glare for his troubles.

“That may be Gandalf, but compared to that, this,” he gestured at the wreckage of the room he was standing in, “This is nothing.”

_He said I learned at an early age,_

_There's things that matter and there's things that don't_

_So if you're waiting here for me to cry,_

_I hate to disappoint you boy, but I won't_

“If you are waiting for me to rage and curse, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“You have changed Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf noted.

“I learned much from my hobbit,” Thorin replied. “Hobbits value family, comfort, and a good meal over gold or jewels. Bilbo helped me to see what truly matters.”

_Then he reached down in the rubble and picked up a photograph_

_Wiped the dirt off of it with the hand that he still had_

_He put it to his lips and said man she was something_

_But this ain't nothin'_

Looking down at his feet, Thorin bent and picked up the small crown that had fallen from it’s plinth in the battle. It was similar to the one Bilbo was buried in, except that he had worn this one only when required, preferring the crown Thorin had forged for him.

Turning the small crown over in his hands, Thorin let a small smile grace his face, sad and tired though he may be. “Bilbo was something. He was light and love and hope, and my life is darker without him. How could this matter more than him?”

_He said I lost my daddy, when I was eight years old,_

_That cave-in at the Kincaid mine left a big old hole,_

“Balin has long passed,” Thorin reminded the wizard. “My friend and trusted advisor, who had tutored me when I was but a dwarfling. I feel the loss of his presence often.”

_And I lost my baby brother, my best friend and my left hand_

_In a no win situation in a place called Vietnam_

“Dwalin perished in the most recent battle to retake the mines of Moria,” Thorin continued, still turning the small crown around in his hands. “He fell shortly after his brother breathed his last, and I lost both of my closest companions, aside from Bilbo, in the same week.”

_And last year I watched my loving wife, of fifty years waste away and die_

_We were holding hands when her heart of gold stopped pumping_

_So this ain't nothin'_

“There was nothing I could do for Bilbo,” Thorin said after a few minutes of silence. “I actually went and begged for help from Thranduil, tree-shagging bastard that he is. He could do nothing, nor could Elrond, once he arrived. I sat by his bedside as he breathed his last, holding his hand and promising that I would never forget.”

_This ain't nothin' time won't erase_

_And this ain't nothin' money can't replace_

“The kingdom can be rebuilt, and time will fade the memory of this day until little remains of it except for a page in the history books,” Thorin said, the bitter edge still underlining his words. “Time and money can fix this, whereas nothing can change the reality that he is gone.”

_He said you sit and watch your loving wife fifty years fighting for her life_

_Then you hold her hand til her heart of gold stops pumping_

_Yeah boy that's something,_

_So this ain't nothin'_

_Yeah this ain't nothin'_

“You have never married Gandalf, nor do I know if there is one who has claimed your heart,” Thorin said, finally meeting the wizard’s gaze. Gandalf saw a pain that nothing to do with the recent attack on Erebor and everything to do with his Consort, his burglar, his Bilbo, who had died peacefully two months previous. “Imagine wizard, what it would be like to see the being you loved, cherished, would do anything for…imagine seeing them lying, struggling to stay with you because they didn’t want to leave you behind, and then being there beside them as their heart stops, finally. Compared to that, Gandalf, this is nothing, nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do take requests for pairings (in either Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, The Hobbit, or Harry Potter) and songs. I can't guarantee I'll be able to write it, but I'll try.


	14. Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft worries after his brother up and disappears. He leaves a message on his answering machine in case his brother calls, letting him know he will always be welcomed back.  
> Gen-Mycroft & Sherlock, song is "Hurry Home" by Jason Michael Carroll.

_He's been sitting by the phone since she left_

_But it's time for work and he just can't be late_

Mycroft had been sitting by the phone since Sherlock stormed out of his flat two days previously. He had no idea where his brother was, none of his resources (few though they were, he was steadily increasing his reach every year) had turned up anything.

He wanted to just sit here and wait for his phone to ring, for Sherlock to call him and tell him he was coming back. The twenty-five year old glanced at his watch and then back at the phone. He would be late if he didn’t leave soon.

_So he grabs his old guitar_

_And he plays a couple bars on the machine_

_And then he softly sings_

Mycroft looked at the phone for a few minutes before he went to his bedroom and dug around in his closet for the guitar Sherlock had given him two Christmases previously. He strummed a few bars experimentally, re-familiarizing himself with the instrument, before he hit the record button on the machine, beginning to play.

_It doesn't matter what you've done, I still love you_

_It doesn't matter where you've been, you can still come home_

_And honey if it's you, we've got a lot of making up to do_

_And I can't hug you on the phone, so hurry home_

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done,” Mycroft sang, closing his eyes and picturing his baby brother, his sole responsibility since their parents died shortly after his seventeenth birthday. “It doesn’t matter where you’ve been, how much trouble you’re in, I’ll always love you. Lock, if it’s you, we’ve got a lot of making up to do, and we can’t do this on the phone so come home.”

He stopped the recording, put down his guitar, and picked up his briefcase. If Sherlock called while he was gone, he would know that Mycroft wasn’t angry with him. Hopefully the message would convince him to come home.

_Well the message light was blinking when he got back_

_It was an old friend calling cause he just heard the news_

_He says Man I hope you find her_

_If I see her I'll remind her that her dad is worried_

_And want her to know_

When he got back to his flat later that day, weary from dealing with overbearing politicians, the message light was blinking on his answering machine. For a moment, Mycroft held onto the hope that it was Sherlock, calling to say he was coming home, or at least telling Mycroft where he was.

He was slightly disappointed to find that it was Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man was fairly competent, and before Sherlock disappeared Mycroft would enjoy talking to the other man. He considered that Sherlock had contacted the detective and played the message now, rather than waiting until after he had showered and eaten something.

“Hey Mycroft, it’s me Greg,” the message went, the unmistakable sounds of New Scotland Yard in the background. “Listen, I just heard that Sherlock disappeared. I’m sorry, I know you must be out of your mind worrying about him. I hope you find him soon, and I hope you give him hell for vanishing like that. If I hear from him, I’ll tell him that you’re looking for him and that you’re worried about him. Daft sod probably hasn’t considered that. Call me if you have a minute or need a chat.”

_It doesn't matter what you've done, I still love you_

_It doesn't matter where you've been, you can still come home_

_And honey if it's you, we've got a lot of making up to do_

_And I can't hug you on the phone, so hurry home_

Mycroft sighed as he changed and mechanically began to prepare dinner. It was easier without Sherlock around causing mayhem for no reason, but he also would freely admit (if only to himself) that he would prefer that Sherlock was here, terrorizing him, than being elsewhere doing God knows what.

He closed his eyes, sandwich forgotten, as he considered, yet again, everything that could happen to Sherlock. He also considered the fact that Sherlock might not come back because he was afraid of his welcome.

 _Well,_ Mycroft thought, opening his eyes and resuming his dinner preparations, _hopefully that message will dispense that worry. Only for Sherlock would I do something so ridiculous._

Only for Sherlock would he sing a message for his answering machine in the vain hope that Sherlock would call him.

_Well the days dragged by without a word from her_

_And it looked like she might not be coming back_

Two months.

Sherlock had been gone two months today. He hadn’t tried to get in touch once, nor had any of Mycroft’s efforts shone any light on where he could be. It was seeming more and more likely that Sherlock simply wasn’t coming back.

_People said man don't you think it's time to take that old message off_

_He said no, you never know when she might call_

Greg Lestrade had tried to convince him to take the message off the phone, telling him that there was no point in keeping it on.

“I understand Mycroft, I do,” Lestrade said, sincerity written in every line on his face, “But it doesn’t look like he’ll be coming back.”

“You never know,” Mycroft replied with an optimism that pertained solely to his baby brother. “Sherlock has always been unpredictable. He could call at any time. I have no intention of giving up on my brother, regardless of who else does.”

_She was just outside a bar in New York City_

_Her so-called friends had left her all alone_

Sherlock sighed, looking up at the sky dismally. His ‘friends’ (and he uses the term very loosely) had abandoned him as soon as he ran out of money for drugs. Looking around, he spotted a phone booth on the corner.

_She was scared he wouldn't want her_

_But she dialed up that old number and let it ring_

_And then she heard him sing_

Sherlock bit his lip as he turned the coins around in his palm several times. He worried that Mycroft didn’t want him anymore, and that he was relieved that his annoying baby brother was no longer around to cause mayhem.

Shaking his head, wondering when he became such a coward, he put the money in and dialed Mycroft’s home number. There was no answer, unsurprising considering the time of day, and the machine began to play.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Mycroft was singing.

_It doesn't matter what you've done, I still love you_

_It doesn't matter where you've been, you can still come home_

_And honey if it's you, we've got a lot of making up to do_

_And I can't hug you on the phone, so hurry home_

**“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter where you’ve been, how much trouble you’re in, I’ll always love you. Lock, if it’s you, we’ve got a lot of making up to do, and we can’t do this on the phone so come home.”**

Sherlock listened to the message, stunned. Mycroft was singing, for him! He was playing the guitar Sherlock had bought him ages ago, when things were still good between them. He wanted Sherlock to come home!

 

_He walked in just in time to hear her say_

_Dad, I'm on my way_

Mycroft walked in, happy to have a shorter day than ordinarily. He heard his message playing, wondering who was calling. He was toeing off his shoes when the song ended and the caller began leaving a message.

He started when he recognized Sherlock’s voice. He didn’t reach the phone in time, the message was too short, but it filled him with hope.

“I’m coming home My.”


	15. Powerless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo was powerless to stop Thorin's descent into madness. He was equally powerless when he tried to stop loving him.  
> Bilbo/Thorin, song is "Powerless" by Linkin Park. Written for a prompt on the kink meme

_You hid your skeletons when I had shown you mine_

Bilbo noticed, of course, that Thorin wasn’t very open with him. Bilbo had answered every question Thorin asked, admitting to his mischief-making youth, which had ended with the deaths of his parents, and his conforming to the role of respectable gentlehobbit so that Lobelia wouldn’t be able to take Bag-End away. He told Thorin of the magic ring he had stolen from Gollum and what it did. He told Thorin every secret, laid himself bare, and Thorin didn’t reciprocate.

He was met by a brick wall when he tried to find out anything about his lover’s past.

_You woke the devil that I thought you'd left behind_

He knew that Thror had been affected by gold madness, Balin had said so himself, but it had never affected Thorin, or so they said. When the dragon was defeated, Bilbo watched the gleam of madness ignite in his love’s eyes, knowing that it was the gold and the Arkenstone conspiring to wake a devil in Thorin that the dwarf had sworn he would never succumb to.

_I saw the evidence, the crimson soaking through_

_Ten thousand promises, ten thousand ways to lose_

There was nothing else for Bilbo to do; he had to take the damnable stone so the men and elves could use it to bargain with the dwarves. He hadn’t expected Thorin to be happy about his choice, but he hadn’t expected that his lover would hold him upside down over the wall of Erebor, threatening to let him fall.

_And you held it all. But you were careless to let it fall_

Bilbo watched the dwarves prepare for battle, his ring concealing him from the eyes of all. He should have left, after Thorin had banished him, but he couldn’t abandon them. He knew, somehow he knew, that Thorin would come out of his madness once he saw the destruction this battle would wreak on his people, as well as on the elves and men. He knew Thorin would see how far he had fallen.

_You held it all, and I was by your side_

_Powerless_

Bilbo had stayed by Thorin’s side throughout the quest. The dwarf slowly began to respect him, and then love him, and Bilbo loved him in return. He loved him, utterly and completely, and he could not betray Thorin in truth, no matter what the dwarf believed. Bilbo was powerless when it came to his dwarf.

_I watched you fall apart and chased you to the end_

Bilbo watched Thorin fall, slain by the beast who had killed his grandfather and sister sons. He ran to Thorin’s side, dodging the others who fought, ignoring them as he raced towards the only one who truly mattered.

_I'm left with emptiness that words can not defend_

Now, Bilbo woke up screaming from nightmares where his love was slain right in front of him. He spent his days in a state of apathy, no longer caring what others would think of him. He no longer cared for adventures, for his books, for…anything.

He was empty, as though he had truly died when Thorin did.

_You'll never know what I became because of you_

He felt the ring’s presence constantly, listening to it’s whispers, promising to remove all of his pain. Before, he was strong enough to resist such whispers, knowing dark magic was working, likely as not.

Without Thorin, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would become a slave to the ring if it would manage to get rid of that awful emptiness.

_Ten thousand promises, ten thousand ways to lose_

All promises were broken eventually. Gandalf took the ring and Bilbo set out to Rivendell. Perhaps the elves could heal him, but he doubted it. Thorin’s promises had come to nothing when the dwarf chose gold over him. The ring’s promises came to nothing when the wizard came and took the ring. The elves promises would likely as not come to nothing when they realized they could not heal his broken spirit.

_And you held it all, but you were careless to let it fall_

_You held it all, and I was by your side, powerless_

Thorin had held his heart, and he threw it away as though it meant nothing. Bilbo would have died for him, had killed for him, and it didn’t matter to the dwarf. Bilbo had been powerless to stop Thorin’s descent into madness.

_And you held it all, but you were careless to let it fall_

_You held it all, and I was by your side, powerless_

_Powerless_

_Powerless_

_Powerless_

Bilbo had been powerless to stop Thorin, and he was equally powerless to stop the hold the dwarf had on him, even now. Thorin may have stopped loving Bilbo, but Bilbo was powerless to do the same.


End file.
